


turn to hate

by thickskeleton



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur is Sadie's himbo best friend, But not right now, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, F/F, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, High Honor Arthur Morgan, I may come back to this, M/M, Major canon divergence, On Hiatus, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, also Arthur smokes weed because I hate writing about drinking, how long does something have to be to be a slow burn, it is unfinished, just a pinch of Sadie/Molly don't want to disappoint anyone, my OTP is Arthur Morgan and thearpy, one good man Charles Smith, some hunting gore, wlw mlm solidarity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27929839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thickskeleton/pseuds/thickskeleton
Summary: “He turned his head to look at the other man. Charles was leaned up on his side, face rested against his fist, watching Arthur plainly. The ghost of his laugh was still on his lips. Arthur thought that he looked softer right then than a dandelion, bristling with its silver tufts, falling away as soon as it was touched.”Charles Smith joins the Van der Linde gang several years before the events of Red Dead Redemption 2.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 27
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The timeline here is a little messy. Functionally, it's ~1892 except Sadie Adler is already in the gang because I'm in love with her and also wlw mlm solidarity. They're not in New Hanover necessarily, but I do borrow several in game locations. Charles is in his mid twenties and Arthur is in his late twenties.

"I think it went okay."   
Arthur snapped his head around to glare at the twenty year old trotting behind him.   
"What does 'okay' mean to you, Marston?"   
"We got the money didn't we?"  
"Yeah, all thirty dollars of it."   
"Better than nothing."  
"I don't think it is, John. Is thirty dollars worth somebody's life?"   
John took a long time to answer, "No. But it was us or them."   
Arthur rolled his eyes. _Us or them_. A phrase Dutch had been relying on more and more as of late. Arthur found that more often than not, the stakes were not so high.   
"Us or them is for when somebody has a gun pointed at you. Not when some old man yells for the law." He glanced back over his shoulder, but John would not look at him. John wouldn't look at him earlier either, when the old man was bleeding out at their feet.

"Go on, get your money then," he had told the younger man. The road was deserted, but Arthur kept checking over his shoulder just in case. John bent down to feel for his wallet.  
"I think he's still alive," he said, hands frozen over the man's chest. John had shot him in the stomach.  
"Not for long. Let's go."  
"We should put him out of his misery."  
He looked down at the old man, eyes frantically searching around, blood silently dripping form the corner of his mouth.  
"If you want to waste the bullet, sure, go ahead."   
John wasted the bullet, and Arthur wondered if he should feel cruel. 

"It's what Mac woulda done," John said to the ground as they hitched their horses outside camp. Mac Callander, his newest idol.   
"Well you ain't Mac. Or Davey, or Sean, or anybody else. You been here longer, you know better. Act like it."   
"Sorry Arthur."  
"Ain't helpin' nobody to apologize to me."   
Arthur turned from his horse and noticed the camp crowded around Dutch's tent. He approached, John on his heels.

"And Mr. Smith is also an excellent hunter, so really you all should be thanking him already. Hopefully Pearson's culinary skills can keep up."  
_Smith?_  
Arthur came up behind Bill, nudging him so he could get a better look. Bill glared at him, unmoving. New recruits, always so eager to prove how tough they are. Arthur nudged him again and he took the smallest step to the side. Arthur, though broad and strong, was one of the shorter men in camp. So he still couldn't see anyone beside Dutch, Davey's big head blocking the stranger. Apparently finished, Dutch dismissed them. As the group dispersed, left standing next to Dutch was a tall young man with a scar on his jaw. He had dark skin and long black hair falling loosely past his shoulders. His shirt, some kind of well worked leather, trailed further past his waist than he normally saw men wear. Handmade, maybe.   
"Arthur!" Dutch called, noticing him. When the new man's big brown eyes fell on him, Arthur felt his breath hitch. But by the time he exhaled, it was anger. "John! Come here! This is the newest addition to our family, Charles Smith."   
Charles smiled. It was small but sincere and more heavily favored the unscarred side of his face.   
"It's good to meet you both," he extended his hand towards them. His voice was warm and rich and deep. He shook John's hand, and then he held it out to Arthur.   
"Charles," he nodded at the man instead, trying not to notice the funny way his name rolled around in his mouth. "Bringing home an awful lot of strays," he threw at Dutch. If Charles felt any type of way about the comment, he didn't show it. Arthur wished he would though. Turning away and walking towards his tent, he heard Dutch sigh.   
"Sorry, Mr. Smith. He's not usually like that."   
"Well don't lie to the man!" John laughed, "C'mon, I'll show you around."   
Arthur glanced over his shoulder to see John put his arm around Charles jovially. A spike of something like jealousy flared inside him. Arthur called it annoyance instead. When Charles looked over to him, Arthur quickly closed the flaps of his tent behind him. 

Later, Arthur was sitting under a tree outside camp, cleaning his guns. The sun had set hours ago, and most of the gang was seated around the fire and drinking to celebrate their newest member. When Davey had lumbered over earlier, already drunk, and insisted that Arthur join them, he'd agreed that he would as soon as he finished. So, he was dragging his feet. He was on his last weapon, his double barreled shotgun. It took the longest, but he'd already gone over it three times. He was in the mood to get drunk and shoot the shit with his friends, but every time he glanced over, resolved to finally join them, he would catch sight of Charles. Sitting gracefully despite his size with an easy, drunk smile on his face, it got Arthur angry all over again. He didn't know _why_ exactly, just that some men rubbed him the wrong way. It usually ended in a fist fight, but he knew he couldn't get away with that in camp. Unprovoked, at least. So he was trying to keep his distance. It wasn't a longterm solution, but it was better than beating the shit out of him. Or getting the shit beaten out him, more than likely. Arthur cleaned his gun for the fourth time.

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur watched Charles leave the campfire, hopefully to go to bed. He jumped up, quickly putting his guns away before plopping down on a fur next to the fire. _Thank god,_ he though, rubbing his hand. It was sore and he'd lost the light a long time ago.   
" _Finally!_ " Davey yelled, words much more slurred now than they'd been before, "took ya long enough!"   
Arthur shrugged, lighting a hash cigarette. "A good shot cleans his guns. You wouldn't know nothin' about that though." Davey scoffed.   
"I clean my guns," Bill grunted, somehow offended, "doesn't take me three hours."  
"Probably ain't doin' it right."   
Arthur nearly laughed, Bill looked so close to screaming.  
"Well he ain't cleanin' 'em the whole time I tell you," Sean interrupted them, "Gotta fuck 'em first."   
"Hey you find me a barrel big enough? Shit I'll try anything twice."  
"What're ya talkin' about Arthur? Your revolver is on your hip." Arthur laughed, feeling the stinging of smoke deep in his throat. Sean was an annoying bastard, but he could make anyone laugh, even if the joke was at their expense. A rare skill, one Arthur valued. Sadie sat down next to him, a half empty fifth in her hand.   
"Trade ya?" she gestured to his cigarette.   
"Not tonight, thank you. You can have some though." With an intimacy she was used to at this point, Arthur held the cigarette to her lips for her to take a drag. Arthur felt her warm breath on his fingers.   
"Thanks Arthur," she mostly mouthed, holding her breath. When she released, a long cough came with it. Arthur chuckled, and glanced away to find Charles looking at him.   
" _What?_ " he snapped.   
Charles shrugged, expressionless, and went back to the conversation he was having with Mac. _He_ looked annoyed.   
"What's your problem, Morgan?"   
"Ain't got one."   
"Sure seems like you do."   
"And what the hell does it have to do with you anyway, Callander?"   
"Me?" Davey asked.   
"Boys, boys!" Sean interrupted. He would do next to anything to salvage a party, "calm down, I'm sure Arthur here is just worried about not being the prettiest anymore. Don't you worry ya dirty Englishman," he reached over to grab Arthur's face in his hand, "you're still the prettiest flower in my garden!"   
"Would ya get the hell off me," Arthur shoved his hand away, dipping his head so his hat covered his face. He let the conversation flow on without him, focusing on the cloudy peace slowly filling his head. He thought he felt Charles look at him a few times, but did not meet his gaze. 

* * *

The next morning, Arthur woke up early to do chores and make coffee. Only Dutch and Miss Grimshaw were awake with him, engrossed in their own duties. He started the fire and set up his percolator over it. He chopped the wood, a slightly larger pile than usual after he'd been gone for a few days with John. He thought it should bother him that no one else put out hay, or set out Pearson's provisions, but it didn't. He enjoyed the early day physical labor. It helped him work out some of the aggression. At one point, he passed Charles and Sean's cots, a bale of hay balanced against his hip. When he glanced over though, he saw Charles was wide awake, hands behind his head, plainly watching Arthur. It nearly made him trip, noticing it. He felt warm anger bloom in his stomach.  
" _What?"_  
Again, Charles merely shrugged, expressionless. Childish as it was, Arthur mimicked him. Charles' eyebrow arched, and his lips twitched ever so briefly into a smile.   
"Just trying to learn how things run around here." His voice was a little raspy after a night of drinking and smoking.   
"You might wanna take notes on this one," Arthur nodded to the hay bale, "you pick this up, and put it closer to the horses."  
A real chuckle then. Arthur smiled at the sound of it despite himself.   
"Noted."   
"You're up might as well do somethin," Arthur grunted, and tossed the hay bale down next to Charles before going back to his coffee. 

Later on, he stood in Dutch's tent with Hosea, listening to them plan. They invited him into these meetings as more of a courtesy than anything; he rarely had much to add beyond logistics. He was half listening to how they wanted to tackle their new surrounds, specifically the nearest town. Mostly he was watching the camp run through a small opening in the canvas wall of the tent. Tilly was brushing down the horses meticulously. He watched her try and approach his horse, Fae, but she nipped at her outstretched fingers. Tilly huffed and moved on. Fae was a mean, temperamental one, but she was fast as hell and resilient too.   
"What do you think, Arthur?"  
"Hm?"  
Hosea sighed. "I think we should lie low for a bit here. Plan."  
"What, 'cause of Butler?"  
Butler was the town they had been from running from when they landed here. A bank job gone south, Dutch vowed it was their last for while. Instead, he wanted everyone out on small jobs, consistently. Arthur figured that was what all the new faces were about. He couldn't say he minded, if everyone could keep their heads on straight.  
"Yes," Dutch answered, "not _too_ low though. I want everyone bringing in money."   
"You don't think even, what, a week of minding our own? Those deputies were pretty vindictive."   
"Oh, they won't chase us all the way out here. We barely got any money anyway. Besides, didn't you and John start already?"  
"If you'd call a man dyin' over thirty dollars startin', sure.”   
Dutch sighed. "One week then. But," he looked at Arthur, "I don't want you lot lazing about, wasting our resources. Hosea, can you send some of them out? We could use some ammunition, specifically revolver..."  
Arthur's mind started to wonder again as Dutch and Hosea decided how beset to put them to work. He didn't much care where he got sent. He found no jobs made him feel any type of way anymore. When they went poorly it made him angry. When they went well some of the anger faded. He didn't know how to describe what was left over when it faded. Nothing, he supposed. But it was a more peaceful feeling at least, the nothingness. He tried to remember the last time he'd felt anything else. The red jewel on Dutch's ring caught the light as the man gestured.   
"...and Arthur, you go hunting. Get us some fresh, free food."   
"Ain't much of a hunter."   
"You're better than the rest of these trigger happy fools."   
"Good shootin' ain't the only part of huntin'."   
Arthur had hunted before, plenty of times. With Hosea usually, who was beginning to not enjoy days long expeditions like he used to. If a deer was dumb enough to wonder in front of him, it was no problem. Otherwise he just didn't have the patience for it.   
"See Arthur, this is why I keep bringing home 'strays' as you so politely put it. Charles is an excellent tracker. Take him."   
"Charles?" Again, the name floundered around on his tongue, getting caught strangely in his accent. "No, that's alright. I can do it alone."   
"Trust me Arthur, I've seen him work. He's a terrific asset."  
"Then send him himself."   
Dutch's eyes narrowed. "What is your problem with him?"  
"Ain't got one."  
"Sure seems like ya do." Arthur shrugged, looking back out at the horses. "Is it because he's dark?"  
"What?" Arthur scoffed, " 'Course not."   
"Better not be," Hosea interjected, "we raised you better than that."  
"It ain't that!"  
"Then what _is_ it?" Dutch was nearing proper anger now. Doubting any of his calls was doubting his leadership, in his eyes.   
"Fine," Arthur relented, his own anger burning a hole in his stomach. He knew he couldn't argue further without a good reason, which he did not have, "I'll take him."   
Dutch put on a charming smile, happy to have his whims adhered to. "Good, glad you see it my way, son. Go tomorrow." 

That night, he helped John, Mac, and Sean set up the cart. He hitched John and Sean's horses to pull, strong and wide as they were. He whispered an apology when Old Boy's ears flattened in discomfort.   
"Sorry, boy."   
"What's that?" John called from the driver's seat where he was adjusting the reigns.   
"Talkin' to your horse. He could use a good brushin' you know."   
John rolled his eyes. "You coming with us?"   
"Nah, goin' huntin' tomorrow. Why you leavin' tonight anyway?"   
"Figured we'd have a little night on the town," Mac answered, hoisting himself up into the seat next to John, "have a little fun."   
Arthur thought of John's reckless shooting, of his idolization of Mac.   
"Hosea!" he called over his shoulder, "you're gonna let these three go into town alone? To lie low?"   
Sean appeared out of no where, shoving his shoulder. "Arthur!" he hissed, betrayed. Hosea looked up from his book, squinting.   
"Take Uncle."   
Sean and John groaned, and Arthur laughed when he had to sidestep a hit from Sean. Mac levied a mean glare his way.   
"Yer a traitorous Brit, ya know that?"   
"Just keep your guns in your hostlers, alright?"   
And Arthur left them to endure Uncle, joining Sade at the main fire. 

"Hey there," She nodded, keeping her eyes on something in her hands. "Whatcha workin' on?" Instead of responding, Sadie held out the pocket watch she was in the process of taking apart. "Broken or somethin'?"   
"No," she was irritated, clearly trying to focus. She got like that sometimes, all hyper focused and snappy if anyone interrupted her. He'd watched her not eat for an entire day trying to fix Dutch's gramophone. She'd done it though. "I'm taking apart a perfectly good platinum pocket watch for the fun of it."   
"Sure sounds like somethin' you would do."   
Finally she looked up at him, eyes bloodshot. "Go bother somebody else Arthur."  
"But I wanna bother you! Come on, let's get high and skip rocks on that lake. You love that." Aside from Dutch, Hosea, and John, Arthur was closest to Sadie. He certainly liked her the best out of all of them. When she'd joined a year ago, having just left her husband and wholly lost, they had become fast friends. They were really similar; both appreciated a healthy silence, same dry sense of humor, same resting anger. Everyone had thought it was romantic, and some still did he imagined. He thought Sadie was beautiful, quick, and resourceful, but never thought to try and translate that into something sexual. A few months after she joined, they had shared one drunk, curious kiss. Sadie had laughed in his face after, and Arthur found himself laughing too. That had been the end of it.   
"I'm _doing_ somethin' Arthur."  
"You're fuckin' around with garbage. C'mon!"   
That had been the wrong thing to say. Sadie glared up at him, mouth pressed into a hard line, and went back to work. Arthur sighed and let her be, knowing how deeply she dug her heels into any decision she made. He felt restless. The chores were all done and almost everyone else was out on errands. Davey was somewhere around, he imagined. But when he looked for him, he noticed Charles at the scout fire, and realized he had never told him they were going hunting. 

As he approached, he noticed Charles also working something over in his lap. Faster than should have been possible with his large hands, he was fashioning arrows. They were precise looking weapons, with flight feathers tethered to them. Arthur watched, transfixed.   
"Need something?" he asked without looking up.   
"Oh, uh, yeah," Arthur's mouth felt dry. Charles dragged his gaze up to meet Arthur's. It made him angry, so he looked away. "Huntin' tomorrow. Dutch wants us to go."   
"Are you sure you want me to go with you?"  
Arthur briefly met his gaze. Again, expressionless.   
" 'S Dutch's decision."   
"Ah," Charles said, and went back to his work. Arthur realized that it must seem very much like he didn't like the color of Charles' skin. The man hadn't done anything to him at all, except be recruited and be new and have hair that was so shiny it almost reflected the light from the fire. He also realized if someone treated him the way he was treating Charles, he probably would've hit them by now.   
"Look, Charles," Arthur did his best not to trip over the vowels and the sound of him crafting arrows stopped, "I ain't got a problem with you." The other man merely looked up at him, a silent request to continue. Arthur ignored the warmth in his throat and held his gaze. "I really don't. You're just...new, is all. Sure you're plenty capable. Just don't know ya yet."   
To his surprise, Charles smiled.   
"Thank you for saying that. I appreciate it. I was worried about what you thought of me."  
Arthur felt his ears burn. He wasn't used to people just saying shit outright like that.   
"Yeah, well," he scratched the back of his neck, turning to leave, "tomorrow then."  
"Goodnight, Arthur." 

* * *

Arthur woke up early again. It had rained the night before, and the water had swelled into a thick fog. It haunted the tops of the trees further down the hill behind them. More lazy than ominous, it slowly pushed up through the canopy and escaped into the open air. He lay in his cot for an extra ten minutes to watch it through the opening in his tent, before starting his coffee. The fire was already on, and when he went to chop the firewood, someone was already doing it. Charles, sweating in the oppressive humidity, midway through the arc of his swing. He split the log easily in half, like a hot knife through butter. Arthur suddenly felt very defensive of the chore.   
"Hey, I was - !"   
"Good morning, Arthur."   
"Oh, uh. Good morning. But - !"   
"How did you sleep?"  
Arthur's ears felt hot. "Fine. I usually chop the firewood."   
"Well, I took your advice, decided to help out instead of just watching. So today you don't have to."   
"Maybe I like doin' it."   
The ghost of a smile dusted Charles' face before disappearing.   
"Do you?"  
"Maybe."   
"Well how about I let you collect the firewood on our trip? Then we'll be even," he teased. Arthur rolled his eyes and went to move the hay. 

They left later that morning. They'd agreed that Arthur would lead them to the plains and let Charles take over from there. It was half a day's ride away, but it was a lush area and they each had room on their horse for a kill. Arthur figured at most they would spend two nights sleeping under the stars. He'd been agitated getting ready and when they'd first started out. But he soon discovered they were able to share a comfortable silence. No pressure to speak or inane chatter, he felt his anger deflate, leaving just that quietness in his chest. Around two hours in, they spoke for the first time.   
"Look," Charles called out. Arthur followed his pointing finger. Down over the hillside, some thousand yards away, were a heard of buffalo. They were grazing peacefully in the yellow light of late afternoon. He saw at least two calves, growing fat in the hot summer.   
" 'S real nice."   
"Mm," Charles hummed in agreement. Arthur caught him watching fondly them until they lost sight of them around a corner. 

They set up camp and ate dinner in near silence. Arthur warmed some canned beans over the fire and Charles tore them each a portion of bread. The plains were indeed teeming with life. The cricket song was near deafening, and he was always hearing the scurrying of small animals.   
"Lightnin' bugs," Arthur noted, looking out into the tall grass. They were a ways into the tree line, but it was dark enough to see them clearly.   
"What?" Arthur pointed. "No, what did you say?"  
"Lightnin' bugs?"   
"Fireflies?"  
"Yeah. 'S the same thing."   
"Just a funny name for them."   
"You never heard that before?"  
"No, I don't think so."   
"Guess you're not from the south, huh?"  
Charles shook his head. "I'd only come down from Nebraska a few days before I met Dutch."   
"What was in Nebraska?"  
"Me, until I left."   
A silence passed where Arthur took out his journal and began a quick sketch of the buffalo.   
"Where are you from?"  
"Georgia."   
"What was in Georgia?"   
Arthur glanced up at him over his journal.   
"Me, till I left." 

* * *

Arthur woke up first and started the fire and the coffee. The bright sun sprinkled down through the leaves in waves of movement. There was a gentle breeze. While the coffee boiled, he walked out to the edge of the clearing as quietly as he could. He thought he saw some deer across the way, but it was too far for him to be sure, so he paused to just admire the area. Mostly untouched by man, the tall grass rippled in the wind. He wondered how long these trees had been growing here, unencumbered. He had no idea how long trees lived, but he liked to think they had been standing here for hundreds of years. He thought about taking out his hunting knife and carving his initials into one, marking the brevity of his life in the ageless nature. He figured that wouldn't do anything productive beyond dulling his knife, so he walked back to camp. Charles was fiddling with his percolator.   
"Somethin' wrong?"   
"You just had it a little close to the fire. I didn't want it to burn."   
Arthur made his coffee the exact same way every single morning. Secretly, he'd always thought his tasted worse than when other people made it, but had never been able to figure out why.   
"Maybe that's the way I like it." This time, Charles did not hide his chuckle.  
"Is it?"  
"Might be. 'S fine though, we can drink it your way."  
"Thank you, Arthur."  
Arthur grunted. 

When they went to leave, Charles eyed his hunting rifle suspiciously.   
"You're not planning on using that, are you?"   
"What, my hunting rifle? To hunt? No, that would be silly."   
"You'll scare away every deer within earshot. We won't be able to get two."   
"Well then what am I supposed - !"   
"Leave it." Charles said flatly. Arthur automatically did as told, tucking it back into Fae's saddle. A strange expression crossed Charles' face.   
"What?"  
"Nothing."

Arthur showed him where he thought he had seen the deer earlier. They made their way around the clearing, slow but near silent. Charles was in his element. He planted each foot confidently, never making a sound. He warned Arthur if he was about to run into a spiderweb, or if he was about to step into poison oak. Arthur tried his best to follow suit, but occasionally something would snap under his feet. He watched Charles' back, wide and strong, twitch every time he did, but he said nothing. They'd searched for hours when Arthur suggested they take a break. He didn't say it was because recently his back had started to ache when he was hunched over for too long. They shared a portion of dried meat and Arthur watched him adjust the string of his bow. He was starting to think watching Charles work with his hands was almost relaxing. He kept his nails short and clean, and though Arthur knew his hands had to be heavily calloused, he'd watched him rub oil into them the night before, so he figured they were also soft.   
"Do you want to try?"  
"Huh?"  
Charles held out the bow. "Have you ever shot one before?"  
"Nah, that's okay."   
"I don't mind," he said, stilling holding it out.   
"Well, alright."   
Arthur took it and stood, trying to emulate the way he had seen Charles practice. It was a bit awkward in his grip, maybe a little long for him, but he thought he had it.   
"Oh, I need the other thing."   
"The arrow?"  
"Yeah."  
Charles smiled and handed him one. It had a pretty black feather attached to it. The arrow complicated things. He tried to pull it back against the string, but it lazily drifted outward away from center. Arthur cursed quietly, unsure of which finger was meant to be preventing that.   
"Do you want my help?"  
"No." A few minutes of fruitless adjustments went by. "Yes."   
Charles stepped up behind him and gently raised his elbow. The arrow found it's home flush against the bow.   
"Then just..." Charles reached around and took his middle and index finger. Arthur had been right; calloused but soft. This close, he could smell something earthy on Charles, maybe a hint of mint on his breath. Arthur felt agitated all of a sudden, his ears and face growing warm. He quickly pulled out of Charles' touch and stepped away from him.   
"Think I got it," he said with a gruffness that surprised even him.   
"Okay."   
Clumsily, Arthur readied the bow and shot. It did a weak arc before nose diving into the ground. He handed it back to Charles without another word. He didn't look at the other man, knowing that same smooth, expressionless look would be on his face. 

As the sun was ready to set, Charles put a hand on Arthur's chest to stop him. He looked at Charles, annoyed, but the other man had a finger held to his lips. No more than thirty feet away was a large buck, grazing. Arthur watched Charles nock the arrow so smoothly it was like it was an extension of his arm. He made note of how his fingers were positioned. Charles inhaled, and loosed the arrow on his exhale. It struck true, deeply lodged in the animal's throat. It bleated loudly as several other deer scattered around them. He looked to Charles, expecting to see him readying another arrow, but he wasn't next to him. He'd run up to the struggling buck, and quickly slit its throat. It stopped moving soon after.   
"Why'd you do that? Coulda had our second deer and gone home."   
"It was in pain," he said matter of factly, and Arthur felt cruel. 

After dinner, he asked to try the bow again. Charles had nodded without getting up from where he was leaning back, watching the sky. Arthur swallowed. He was being rude and he knew it, had no reason to be.   
"Would ya help me?"  
Charles looked up.  
"You sure?"  
"Yeah, if ya don't mind. Sorry about..." _being a cranky loon for no reason?_ "Sorry about earlier."   
Charles nodded and got up to stand next to him. "Thank you, Arthur. I forgive you." Arthur felt his residual warmth from the fire and took deep, even breaths. When he adjusted his hands, he ignored the agitation it spiked.   
"Odd, the way you talk sometimes."   
"How do you mean?"   
"All open and plain like."   
Charles shrugged, lifting his elbow again from where it had drooped. "It doesn't do anyone any good to beat around the bush. I prefer for people to know exactly how I feel." Arthur didn't respond, just closed one eye to aim. "Now just release."   
The arrow found purchase in the tree with a satisfying _thunk_. Arthur smiled and Charles patted his shoulder before returning to his seat. He took a few more shots on his own, with Charles offering the occasional directive. When he was satisfied that he could repeat the motion on his own, he slipped into his bedroll. Strangely uncomfortable, he rolled around a bit. He was surprised to realize he was half aroused. Slightly panicked, he rolled onto his side away from the fire and pinched his eyes closed, waiting for unconsciousness. He dreamt of hands on his back, of lips on his neck, and the next morning pretended to be asleep until his erection faded. 

* * *

A bit before noon, they found their second deer. Arthur spotted it, grabbing Charles' shoulder and pointing excitedly. Charles held out the bow to him. Arthur shook his head. He wasn't ready, would almost certainly botch it. He didn't want to fuck up so badly in front of the other man. Charles smiled, mouthed _yes_ and shoved it into his hands. Arthur lined himself up, trying to remember how the arrow had arced. Like Charles had done, he took a deep breath. Exhale. Release. With the same satisfying _thunk_ it went through the deer's eye, and it fell to the ground with no fuss. Arthur jumped up from his kneeling position.   
"Ha!" he whooped, a wide smile on his face.   
"Nice shot! That was perfect! And on your first - !"   
Arthur, flooded with adrenaline and an agitated excitement, shoved Charles into the tree behind him.   
" _Ow!"_ he said, more out of surprise than genuine pain. "What the hell Arthur?"  
"Sorry, sorry. I just got...loud inside."   
"Loud inside? So you pushed me?"   
"Sorry! I just..." as if it was any kind of explanation, Arthur waved his hands like they were wet, trying to release some of his energy. He was surprised to see Charles hadn't gotten angry, just surprised. Arthur wished he would just push him back. "Sorry."   
"It's alright," he rubbed his shoulder, still watching Arthur. "Good shot."   
"Thanks."  
They left soon after. 

Arthur spent the ride back brooding, trying to formulate a better apology than what he had offered in the woods. He still hadn't figured it out when they turned onto the road that led to camp.   
"Charles?"   
"Yes?" he looked back at Arthur, unreadable.   
"I'm sorry."   
"For what?"  
"Shovin' ya."   
"You already apologized for that."   
"Yeah, well," Arthur looked up, found it easier to speak coherently when he couldn't see Charles, "just for everything. I just get so...agitated sometimes. 'S not anything you're doin'."   
"Agitated?"  
"Yeah, ya know," Arthur huffed, shaking his hands again, "agitated."   
"Do you mean excited?"  
"No," he responded too quickly. Charles' lip twitched.   
"Okay, I forgive you."  
"Thanks," he grunted, and rode ahead into camp. 

Everyone was thrilled with their spoils, but Arthur slipped away from the praise as quickly as he could. He found Sadie, blessedly not fucking around with garbage. She was sitting around the scout fire with Molly, a woman Dutch had been bringing around recently.   
"Ladies," he greeted, "Sadie, come on a walk with me?"   
"I'm talkin' to Miss O'Shea."   
"Oh, that's alright," Molly touched Sadie's hand reassuringly, "go on."   
Arthur thanked her, but Sadie looked annoyed trailing after him. They walked down through the trees towards the lake, and Arthur lit a joint for them to share.   
"What Arthur?" she took the hit he offered.   
"I can't hang out with my friend?"  
"You missed me so much after two days that you pulled me from a perfectly interestin' conversation to 'hang out?' "  
"Maybe."   
Sadie sighed, and they smoked in silence until they were at the lake.   
"I just needed to talk to you."   
"Get talkin' then," she said, taking a seat at the end of the short dock. Arthur sat next to her.   
"I've been feelin' real antsy lately."   
"Alright."   
"More than usual."  
"Okay."   
"I shot a deer this morning and damn near pushed Charles over."   
"Why?" Sadie laughed then. Arthur extended his hands, fingers sprawled in a gesture of bewilderment.   
"I just got real...angry. And antsy. I've been snapping at him too, I can't help it."   
Sadie leaned back to lay on the wood. Arthur followed suit, their heads touching. He was a little high, and the stars and her close warmth made him feel peaceful.   
"You sure it's anger?"  
"I don't know," he said honestly.   
"Maybe you're nervous." Arthur scoffed. "What? Charles is a smart guy. He's calm, unlike these other buffoons we run with. Maybe you just want him to like you."  
"I don't know about all that." Arthur thought about how he'd only shoved Charles after he complimented his shot. "Maybe."  
"Nothin' wrong with that. If you calmed the hell down I think you guys would get along."   
"And how would you know?"  
"I've talked to him a bit. He's nice."   
Arthur found that he thought so, too.   
"Did you fix your watch?" He turned his head to see Sadie smiling at him. Their faces were very close. He could smell the hair oil she used and it made him feel peaceful. "You smell nice, Sadie."   
"Yeah!" she exclaimed, ignoring the compliment and pulling the watch out of her pocket. It was ticking, the seconds hand dragging around reliably.   
"How'd you fix it?"   
This had been the wrong thing to say say. Sadie launched into an animated play by play of the watch's life. Arthur listened dutifully. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You’ve ruined a perfectly good cowboy. Look at it, it’s got ADD


	2. Chapter 2

Charles tried to help Pearson dress the deer, but the cook refused his efforts.   
"Believe it or not, I know how to skin an animal," he'd huffed, struggling under the weight of the buck on his shoulder.   
"Of course, let me know if you change your mind."   
"I won't," a pause when Charles turned to leave, "but thank you."   
After years spent on his own, the range of reactions he'd been receiving from the Van der Linde gang left Charles reeling. There was John, who had welcomed him with open arms and excited chatter. He was who Charles had been hoping for; kind men eager for camaraderie. There was Sadie, who had been cold at first, but was quickly warming up to him. She was smart and funny and he preferred to go to her with his questions because she was so articulate. Sean and Davey added him seamlessly into their antics, like he was a new school friends and not a fellow criminal. He'd never really had the opportunity to goof off as a young man. It was new and strange, but he was trying to lean in to it. The others had mixed reactions. While it was mostly a healthy suspicion of his newness, there was some hostility he figured was due to his race. Bill especially seemed wary of him. Apparently, he fought in the war and seemed to have accepted all the propaganda fed to him. Charles avoided him whenever possible. Then there was Arthur.

He joined Mac and John playing cards at the table towards the edge of camp. He was tired enough to go straight to bed, but found himself wanting to chat. It was a desire he was not used to being able to indulge.   
"Hey Charles!" John exclaimed when he sat down. He was only a few years older than John, and his unabashed friendliness was the only reason Charles had stayed through the first night. "Want me to deal you in?"  
"Yeah, thanks."   
"You ever play rummy before?" as John shuffled the cards and gave Charles a brief explanation of the rules, he noticed Sadie following Arthur out of camp. His expression must've given something away, because Mac chuckled.   
"Keep dreaming, Charles. Never gonna happen."  
He looked away quickly, face growing warm. "What?"  
"Sadie. Never gonna happen."  
"Oh."  
"Believe me, I've tried."  
"She's really great," he tried to defend, "really smart."  
"Good luck. Won't open her legs for anyone."  
Charles decided then that he did not like Mac. "That's not what I meant."  
"What is it with them anyway?" he ignored Charles, speaking to John.   
"Who? Her and Arthur?"  
"Yeah. Are they fucking or something."  
"Nah, I don't think so."  
"They're awful close."

Charles had noticed the pair was well. He'd assumed they were some kind of something, was surprised to find out that wasn't the case. He found Arthur odd in an endearing sort of way, despite everything. He enjoyed the apologies the man continued to offer, and the strange discomfort he would become possessed by for seemingly no reason. 

"They're friends," John shrugged, dealing out the cards. He did them one by one, instead of giving everyone all seven at the same time. Charles heard him count under his breath. _One two three, two two three, three two three, four two three._  
"Hm," Mac mused, peaking at his cards, "he's close with all the women though, ain't he?"  
"Guess so."   
"I just mean they're always around him. Touching him and shit, asking if he's eaten."  
Charles tried not to appear overly interested as John toed the line between wanting Mac to like him and respect for his big brother.   
"I dunno Mac, guess I don't watch that closely."  
"And he ain't fucked none of them?"  
"I don't _know_ , Mac. I don't think so."  
"That's weird."  
"What's weird is you being so concerned about where his dick has and has not been," John tried to joke.   
"I've just been noticing, is all."  
"Might be he doesn't want to mess with anyone in the gang," Charles tried to offer. He hadn't been there long enough to pass such a judgement, hadn't see the behavior they were describing, but wanted to defend Arthur.  
"Yeah," John agreed, nodding at him, "it's messy."   
"Well then what about that scene he pulled in that saloon in - !"  
"You let that lie," John interrupted, suddenly serious.   
"Why?" Mac challenged, irritated. He was clearly used to John agreeing with whatever he said. "If it's not - ."  
"Charles!" Dutch called suddenly. They all looked up to see him leaning out of his tent. "There you are! Could I borrow you for a moment?"  
Charles was embarrassingly interested in the conversation John and Mac were having, but it did not seem he had much of a choice.   
  
  
"Come in, come in," Dutch gestured to the empty chair.  
"Thank you."  
"Just wanted to check in. How has your first week been?"  
Charles shrugged, trying to decide how he wanted to respond. He liked Dutch, found him charming and fair. But sometimes he would smile and it reminded him of a snake oil salesmen and it made him want to keep his cards close to his chest. "Good."   
"Well, that's good. I hope you're finding it to be everything I promised?"  
He couldn't disagree with that. Dutch had found him in a saloon near the train station, where he'd just arrived from Nebraska. He had been wearing everything he owned, trying to figure out where to drift to next.   
  
"You a hunter?" a well dressed man sat down next to him at the bar.   
"Why?"   
The man put his hands up like he was trying to convince Charles he meant no harm.  
"I just saw the bow on your back. I've never had much talent for it myself."  
Charles merely nodded, eyeing the menu again. In a desperate attempt to escape “vigilante justice,” he had spent the last of his money on the first train out, which happened to be going out of state. That was fine by him. There hadn’t been anything for him in Nebraska for a long time, he’d just never had a good enough reason to leave. But it had been more than a day since he'd last eaten. Charles was good at hiding his negative emotions, but the man was paying close attention.   
"You hungry?"  
Everything in him told him to say no. Who knew what this guy wanted, what he would expect in return? He thought for a moment and figured it couldn't be any worse than what he was already willing to do for money.   
"Yes."  
He introduced himself as Dutch and ordered Charles two servings of the beef stew. In his hunger, he forgot to be polite, and did not even thank the man until he'd already eaten one bowl.   
"Thank you, Dutch."  
"No need to thank me," he looked around the mostly deserted saloon, and subtly waved the bartender off with a coin between his fingers. He took it and exited the room. "When I see strong, resourceful men like yourself being failed by this so called _civilization_ , it makes me furious."  
The honeyed words were just the kind of thing Charles had wanted to hear. "It is an unfair world."  
"Yes!" he'd exclaimed, "It truly is. I'm so sorry you've had to experience it that way. I'm sure you've received more than your fair share of injustice." He gestured to Charles' appearance. It might have been rude if it wasn't so widely thought that black and Native American people weren’t people at all.   
"Yes," he thought of the hoard of men who had come after him for assaulting someone he had never so much as seen before, "I have."  
"You got somewhere to go? Must be hard, facing that on your own." Charles didn't respond, but moved onto his next bowl of stew. "Well, I won't push you. But there's somewhere I could take you, if you like. Somewhere where there will be people to feed you, protect you. Who won't judge you."  
Charles looked up at him, wary again. "I don't know..."  
"Well, you think on it," he grabbed Charles' shoulder as he stood to leave. "I'll come back through here tomorrow. Let me know what you decide."   
  
"I am," he answered, and gave Dutch a genuine smile. Even though it wasn’t perfect, he hadn't felt so safe in a long time.   
"Good," he smiled back at him, "I'm thinking of sending you and Arthur out hunting every few weeks. Fresh meat really puts these dullards in good spirits, and I have to admit I'm exited to try Pearson's stew tomorrow. And that may be a first."  
They shared a laugh, and Charles thought of Arthur pushing him into a tree. Of Arthur's furious blush and sincere apologies.   
"Yes, I would like that."   
"Wonderful. There's just one more thing. I know I brought you on primarily to hunt for us, and I do and will continue to appreciate those efforts. But you're smart and you're calm, two things I have found to be very rare in this industry. I was wondering if you might consider doing some jobs for us as well. But I'm not sure how familiar you are with those kinds of...efforts."  
Charles almost laughed, thinking of the shit he pulled in Nebraska for pocket change.   
"Yes, I'm sure that'll be fine." 

* * *

The next day's stew was indeed much better than any Charles had so far. He sat around the campfire, unlit to give them a break from the heat, to eat with the others. They shared his opinion.   
"Mm!" John exclaimed, drinking the excess broth. "Damn Charles. Didn't think anything could get me to like Pearson's stew again."  
"I can hear you," Simon had called from his tent, unamused.   
"It was a compliment!"  
"It is really good," Tilly had agreed, some of the first words she had spoken to him. He smiled at her, trying to show her he was kind.   
"Really you should be thanking Arthur," he deflected, motioning to the man who was just joining them with his own bowl. He had his hat pushed back away from his face, and his expression was easy and comfortable. Something like irritation seemed to cross it at Charles' comment, but it faded so quickly he wasn't sure it had ever been there at all.   
"No, no. Wasn't for Charles I woulda come back empty handed."   
"Don't be so modest," he turned to look at the others. "One of the deer he shot right through the eye. First time with a bow."   
The impressed noises a few of them made had Arthur smiling down into his stew. Charles found him beautiful, had since their first meeting. Even when Arthur had been openly rude to him, he couldn't help but admire his thin but strong build, and his bright blue eyes. When he started trying to be nice, Charles found himself even more interested. But he had no real designs on the man, knew Arthur wasn't that way. He acted the part of the silent, brooding manly man all too well. But Charles never saw any harm in looking.   
"Yeah, well," Arthur mumbled predictably. Charles tried to figure out how soon they'd be hunting together again, and how Arthur's face might look when given a gift.

* * *

The rest of their time laying low passed quietly. Camp was fully stocked and everyone was in a great mood. Arthur wondered distantly why it couldn't always be like this; reliable, nearly honest work and full bellies. But of course, Dutch had other plans. With Hosea's advice in his ear, it was going pretty smoothly. They were divided into small groups that Hosea thought complimented each other's strengths. Arthur and John were robbing stagecoaches a few times a week. Easy, smooth, no kill jobs with a decent cache of jewelry to fence. To his surprise, John seemed to have taken his advice seriously. He only shot when he absolutely needed to, and was keeping a cooler head than Arthur had seen before. It was either his advice, or the image of the old man bleeding out at his feet. Whatever works, he figured. Hosea had them cycling though, to not draw too much attention to any one specific job. Him and John only spent a couple of weeks together before he decided they should leave stagecoaches alone for a bit. Arthur thought it was smart, and enjoyed a week of keeping watch over Karen, Mary-Beth, and Tilly while they worked over some men in a nearby town. It nearly went by without incident. 

He'd been sitting in the corner of the saloon nursing a warm shot of whisky for a couple of hours. Tilly was letting some fool "teach" her how to play poker. Mary-Beth was sitting with a man, fake concern clear on her face, and it looked like he was ready to cry into her shoulder. Karen was at the bar, a bit drunk. He wasn't too worried, figured she knew what she was doing, until he watched her sloppily pickpocket the man next to her. He was sober, and noticed immediately. When he grabbed her wrist much more tightly than he needed to, Arthur was at her side. The man looked about ready to yell.   
"Let the lady go," he instructed calmly. He took the man's wallet from Karen and put it back into his hand. This was normally enough to placate them. Sometimes they even laughed it off, preferring to look back to Karen's wide eyes and exposed cleavage. This was not one of those times.   
"What are you, her pimp?"  
"Just a concerned citizen. You got your property back, no harm done."  
"No harm done? This whore tried to rob me!" he was starting to yell.  
"Hey now, ain't no reason to - !"   
The man shoved him. Arthur caught himself before he fell, and tried to stay calm. The wise thing to do would be to leave. Apologize to the man, grab everyone and head back. Keep their heads low. Arthur looked into the man's eyes; green and crackling with pent up rage. His dark har hung messily down into his face, twinged pink from the drink.   
"Let's go outside."   
  
The other man swung first. His first made solid contact with Arthur's cheek, and he stumbled back. Before he could come at him again, Arthur tackled him. A small crowd had formed and absolutely no one tried to intervene. Arthur could only perceive his own anger, hot and prickly inside him, finally being let out. He got a few good hits in before the man weaseled out from under him. He was small, but really quick, and shoved Arthur back into the mud before he could react. He swung one leg over Arthur's, straddling him, and started swinging haphazardly. One landed against his head, one against his chest, and one against his stomach. He cocked his arm, perfectly poised to hit Arthur in the face with enough force to knock him out. They realized at the same time that Arthur was hard, erection strained against his pants and the man's leg. He pulled a face, ready to yell something. Arthur took advantage of his surprise and threw his fist at the side of his head as hard as he could. Blessedly, he slumped over unconscious. Maybe he hit him a little too hard. The crowd dispersed quickly, but Arthur stayed on the ground. Pushing the man off, he rolled onto his hands and knees and tried to calm down, willing his arousal to pass.   
"Arthur!" Karen suddenly appeared beside him, "let's _go_!" He saw what she saw; in the distance, two figures approaching quickly, hands on their belts. Karen somehow made the time to grab the man's wallet before they all fled on their horses.   
  


Back at camp, Miss Grimshaw was pressing a cold rag to his bruising cheek.  
"Ow."  
"Hush," she said, pressing harder.   
He watched Hosea walk over from where Tilly was doing an animated retelling of the evening. He wished she wouldn't, had asked that they try to slip in unnoticed. But he _was_ bruising and covered in mud, so their plan quickly fell apart.   
"What happened to laying low?"   
"He started it."  
Hosea chucked, taking the rag from Miss Grimshaw, who left to give them some privacy. "And you certainly finished it." Arthur grunted, letting Hosea press the rag against his cheek like he was fourteen again. "I know you were protecting Karen, and I appreciate that, as I'm sure she does. But did you really need to beat him in middle of town over it?"  
"He shoved me."   
"And you couldn't take that in stride?"  
Arthur wanted to argue. He wanted to lie and say the man had instigated it, that he had no choice. But he felt foolish and the truth was that he'd wanted to do it. He could've diffused it, or let the man hit him once and been done with it. But he'd wanted to feel his heat, his rage.   
"Guess not."   
"I know it seems silly to tell an outlaw to watch his temper, but Arthur, I want to see you on the other side of all this. Alive and happy. And to do that you need to find a way to reel it in."   
Arthur thought of pushing Charles, of the time he'd thrown Mac from a paddle boat, of the man straddling him in the mud.   
"Yeah."   
"We're about to run out of venison. Why don't you head out on another hunt with Charles? He's very level headed."   
Even in Hosea's gentle touch and soft words, Arthur knew it was not a request.   
"Alright." 

* * *

Charles was taking his time, so Arthur found himself waiting with the horses. Fae was fully packed and in perfect shape. In preparation for the long days of traveling ahead of them, he'd fed her carrots and oatcakes and brushed her until her coat shined. He found himself idly braiding her mane when he noticed Charles' horse. She was a beautiful brown and gray spotted mare, and seemed healthy, but really needed to be brushed. Arthur glanced around, saw Charles fiddling with his equipment, and grabbed his brush. He went over her coat a few times, and thought she looked much happier. It certainly helped display the speckled gray of her hide. He fed her a carrot, and she was still chomping in his hand when Charles materialized behind him.   
"I'm surprised she's letting you near her."  
Arthur was startled for just a moment before regaining his composure. "Probably desperate. Looked like she hadn't been brushed in weeks."  
Charles tutted, somewhere between playful and real offense. "I brush her."  
Arthur shrugged and went back to his horse. He saw Charles had two bows, one slightly smaller than the other, and wondered what animal he was after that would necessitate two different weapons. Birds, maybe? He didn't ask.   
  
They stopped to rest at sunset after another peaceful, quiet ride. Sadie had been at least partially right. Charles _was_ kind and calm and sometimes, when they were riding together, they'd both see something really beautiful and exchange a quick smile to affirm that _yes, I saw that too_ , and it made Arthur feel light. After a small dinner of semi-stale bread and dried meat, Arthur pulled out his cigarette case. He'd pickpocketed it off some fancy looking fool a few months ago, but decided to keep it when he saw it had his same initials inlaid in the silver. He figured it was fate. An intricate floral pattern on the outside, it was red velvet on the inside. He loved it.   
"You want some?" he offered, lighting one. "It's hash."   
Charles smiled before moving to sit within reaching distance of Arthur. "Sure."  
They passed it back and fourth in silence. He found it irritated him to feel the wetness of Charles' mouth on his own lips, and how their hands brushed occasionally. He stifled it, to be polite. If only Hosea could see how well he really could control his anger.   
"So, what was in Nebraska?" he asked again.   
Charles looked at him while he took a drag, his lips puckered carefully. "My parents, a long time ago."  
"Not no more?"  
"No, they died when I was young."   
Arthur nodded slowly. "Yeah, mine too. 'S tough."   
"Yeah," Charles breathed. "How long have you been running with Dutch?"  
"Shit, twelve, maybe thirteen years?"  
"That's a long time."  
"Who you run with? Before."  
"Myself mostly."  
Arthur hummed. That made sense with Charles' comfortable silences and his stoic expression. But not his kindness, Arthur thought. Not his openness. Instead of saying that, Arthur said, "Wouldn'ta thought that."  
Charles shrugged.  
"You ever marry?"  
"Almost, once."  
Charles didn't push, waiting for Arthur to volunteer more.   
"You?"  
"No. Not something I see myself doing."  
Arthur thought of the easy way Charles taught, his open emotions, of the strong swing of his axe, and thought it was almost a shame. He would make a great husband.   
"Me neither."   
"You and Sadie though?" he asked carefully. Arthur couldn't help but to chuckle.   
"No, not me and Sadie."   
"Ah."  
"We're close. But she's like..." Arthur searched for the right word, "my sibling, I guess. 'Sept I like her plenty."   
"As opposed to John?"  
Arthur looked up to smirk at the other man. He was paying attention more than he let on. "Yes, as opposed to John."  
"I worked with him a bit this week."  
"How'd that go?"  
"Fine. He's a good kid. Kind, as much as any of us can be. He's not sturdy like you are, though."  
Arthur found he very much liked that Charles thought he was sturdy.   
"Yeah, well." 

* * *

They rode the last few hours in the morning. There was just a bit of morning dew that shimmered in the grass, and when the sun finally broke over the horizon the reflection from it became nearly blinding. Eventually, they reached a spot that Arthur thought looked about the same as the last ten miles or so had looked. Charles didn't see it that way, so they went off the road and Arthur spent the rest of the morning trailing behind him as he tracked something Arthur couldn't see.   
  
"Okay, let's walk from here."   
"Think the horses will be alright?" They were in mountain lion territory.   
"Leave them unhitched," he shrugged. "They're no safer with us if a lion shows up."   
Arthur supposed that was true. He liked having someone else around who thought things through. It made him feel safer, that if he missed something there was a good chance Charles would catch it. He moved to follow the other man into the woods when he realized he was holding out a bow to him. The new, smaller one, that Arthur had seen him working on.   
"What's this?"  
"It's for you."  
Arthur inhaled sharply as he took the weapon. Charles had been working on it for _weeks._ It was gorgeous, made of a flawless, dark wood. The grip was a soft leather and when he pulled it back to try it out, it was just the right length for him. Arthur felt a rage inside him, warm and tumbling through his stomach and throat. He had a fleeting desire to snap it across his knee.   
"This is, uh...Charles, this is real fine."  
Charles wore his pleasure plainly on his face.   
"I'm so glad you like it."   
  
  
The bow shot beautifully when Arthur felled their first elk early that evening, through a sheet of rain. They'd almost given up at dark when it startled to sprinkle. But Charles found a fresh trail from an elk with a broken leg, he could tell by its tracks. He said that it would be cruel to let it suffer. Arthur decided that lessening nature's cruelty was, though futile, a very fine endeavor. He admired that Charles had that urge. With a bit of effort, they skinned and packed the meat right there in the rain, not wanting to camp with an entire dear carcass. But as they rode to find suitable campground, the rain fell harder and harder. They were lucky to find the road when they did, almost washed away by the sudden downpour.   
"Is there any shelter nearby?" Charles shouted over the rain.   
Arthur tried to picture the surrounding foothills, which he'd really only travelled through a few times. "There's a place near here, people might be living there though."  
Charles shrugged, and the rain that had collected on his jacket spilled over onto him. "Maybe that have a barn."  
  
Arthur led them through the narrow foothills to the house he remembered admiring. It was tall and almost narrow, and there seemed to be a lookout tower. Fields of wildflowers surrounded it, and there was a view of the valley far below. He'd always thought the view from up there must be magnificent. It looked less mystical right then. They led the horses instead of riding them, spooked as they were by how quickly the trails were melting into mud. The valley was hidden by more dark storm clouds and wind ripped through the fields. Arthur noticed there were no horses, and they tied theirs off in the empty lean-to. He was pleasantly surprised by how warm it was, and took an extra minute to unsaddle the horses and give them each a carrot.   
  
Inside, the men didn't have to say anything before they split up to make sure the house was truly empty. The main room had a bed, a small kitchen, and some storage. Up the ladder, the lookout was almost empty save for a couple of chairs and a pack of wet cigarettes. Arthur looked out, and the view was dreary then. But he thought that, yes, it would be magnificent in good weather. Back down the ladder, Charles was starting to boil water in the fire place.   
"There's a tub down there," he nodded towards the basement.   
"Running water?"  
"No, no. But we can warm up some rain water and take it down."  
Arthur swallowed around the word "we" and turned away from Charles to take off his wet clothes. He heard the other man do the same, and looked out the window, not thinking about what Charles looked like changing.   
  
  
By the time Charles had bathed and Arthur after him, his union suit was dry enough to put back on. He felt warm and relaxed coming back up the ladder. It had been a long but fruitful day, and he had always wanted to come in here. He daydreamed idly about living in a place like this. After he closed the hatch behind him, Arthur turned to see Charles on the bed with his union suit pulled up only to his waist. He was sitting cross legged, a cigarette drooping from is lips, as he carefully detangled his long, wet hair. His torso was as strong and wide as Arthur had imagined, scarred in some places and hairy. The tea Charles made filled the room with that same earthy scent he had smelled on his breath. Arthur's mouth felt dry.   
"You okay?" Charles asked, taking the cigarette out of his mouth.  
"Uh, yeah. Sorry." Arthur went to set out his bedroll when Charles tutted.   
"There's plenty of room to share the bed."  
Arthur did not look up. "That's alright."   
"It's really soft."   
"Probably too soft," he mumbled.   
"I think it feels just fine."  
The mattress looked thick and expensive, and wide enough for them to lay shoulder to shoulder. He looked at Charles, felt that anger, and pushed back against it.   
"Yeah, alright," he climbed under the covers and turned away from him. It was absurdly soft. He heard Charles take a sip of his tea, and go back to his hair.   
"Why'd you make me that bow?" he felt braver, looking out the window instead of at the other man.   
"You didn't have one."  
"Coulda bought one."   
"No, you couldn't have. Not like the one I made," he sounded proud.   
"Maybe you shoulda sold it. Could've made good money I bet."   
"Do you not want it?"   
Arthur glanced back in surprise at the ounce of hurt he heard in the other man's voice, but his expression was blank. He wished Charles would show his displeasure as readily as he showed his pleasure.   
"No, no," he said quickly, and Charles smiled, just a little, "I do. It’s wonderful. Just feel bad, wastin' somethin' you _made_ on me."   
Charles got under the covers then, and the bed shifted. Arthur realized that Charles must run hot, as he was very warm all of a sudden.   
"The things I make with my hands are for giving, not selling."   
It was quiet then, as Arthur listened to Charles' breathing get steadier and steadier, until he was softly snoring. Despite the pleasant warmth, he found himself agitated. Their physically exhausting day had apparently done nothing to release that energy from him. He was suffering in an agonizingly alert silence when Charles shifted in his sleep. His shoulder pressed against Arthur's angel bone, and it somehow felt soft. He immediately got up out of bed and into his cold bedroll on the floor. If Charles awoke, he said nothing. When Arthur finally drifted into sleep, it was fitful. He dreamt of a warm mouth, of blind rage, and the feeling of being slapped in the face. 

* * *

Arthur woke up alone to the smell of coffee. Shy rays of sunlight leaked down through the clouds and onto the floor around him. He figured Charles had gone out scouting. Donning his coat and pants, he took his journal and a cup of coffee up to the lookout. He was surprised to find the other man had the same idea.   
"Good morning, Arthur."  
"Mornin' Charles."   
They shared the drowsy silence. Arthur was pleased to see he had been right about the view. Even in the dark aftermath of the storm, it was gorgeous. Charles must have let their horses out to graze, as they walked slowly through the field. He had wanted to write, to try and remember the details of his dream. He realized the mouth had belonged to Samuel, had wanted to try and remember how it felt. But it felt too vulnerable now, even though Charles was preoccupied by the early stages of a wood carving. He drew instead. Charles was partially blocking his favorite angle, the field of wildflowers. He drew around him, and eventually had a funny little silhouette of Charles in the negative space. He thought that maybe later he would draw in the details. His long, dark hair, kinked slightly from the rain. The branching scar coming up from his jaw. His hooded eyes, dark and warm, coming up to look right at - Arthur looked away, back down at his journal.   
"Drawing or writing?"  
Arthur looked over his hasty, anxious lines. "Drawin' I guess."   
"Are you any good?"  
"Nah, just somethin' to keep my hands busy."  
"Mm," a few more flakes of wood fell away from Charles' hands, "you are fidgety, aren't you?"  
"What's that?"  
"You know," Charles did an impression of Arthur shaking his hands, "fidgety."  
"I guess," he huffed, embarrassed.  
"It's not necessarily a bad thing." Arthur grunted, unconvinced. "Hosea said you have a lot of anger."  
Arthur looked up at him, genuinely annoyed. He didn't like the idea of his father and someone they'd barely known for a month plotting against him.   
"That so."  
"Yes."  
"Well he told me you were 'very level headed.'"   
"Seems like maybe he wasn't matchmaking just for jobs," he joked, and Arthur felt his cheeks grow warm.   
"So what, did he ask you to harp on me 'bout it?"  
"No." Arthur believed him, wondered if Hosea's words had been a warning.   
"Well, we are outlaws Charles. Not midwives."  
"Midwifery is not an easy job," he said flatly. It was the second time Charles had bristled at him. He didn't enjoy it.   
"Not sayin' it ain't. Sayin' we ain't known for our bedside manners."   
"Mhm," he backed off, "doesn't mean you can't know some peace."  
"Don't it?"  
"I don't think so."  
"So you know peace? After robbin', hurtin', killin'. You know peace?"  
"Sometimes," he shrugged, frustratingly vague, "if that's how I'm feeling."   
"If I could make peace in myself, reckon that's how I'd choose to feel all the time."  
Charles' brow furrowed. Arthur watched how his scarred eyebrow didn't move as much as the other.   
"What do you mean 'on your own?' "  
Arthur sighed, searching for the right words. "Like you do, I mean. Feelin' peace from inside ya."  
"Where does your peace come from, Arthur?"  
He thought of Sadie's voice close in his ear, of Hosea's reassuring grip on his shoulder, of John's wild laugh, of the familiar scent of Pearson's stew, of riding with Charles.  
"Other people, suppose."  
Charles only hummed. Arthur found that trying to name these things made him feel raw inside, like salt in a half healed wound. It was quiet for a while as he wrestled with this rawness, this vulnerability. It almost felt wrong.  
"There's room in the world for your own feelings, too."  
"I don't know about that."  
"Why?"  
" 'S like Hosea said. I have anger. Not always room for anger."  
"My mother used to say we have to build a home for everything we feel."  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
"That there has to be space for you to feel everything, all the time."  
"You feel everything? All the time?" he did not believe that. Charles was so measured, so patient.   
"Of course."   
Arthur laughed then, even though he knew it was rude and mean. Charles didn't look angry, and Arthur was even more certain he was lying.   
"Don't seem like ya do."  
"Feeling things isn't always acting on them."  
"Then what's the use in feelin' things?"  
Charles was quiet again, and when Arthur looked up, he seemed to be thinking. A deep line had formed between his eyebrows. He thought they were done talking when Charles began again, words precise.   
"Building the home is important. If you don't have somewhere for feeling to live, eventually it stops knocking."  
  
Arthur thought of the old man John shot, bleeding to death in the street. His body slumped at Arthur's feet, eyes searching the sky for some kind of reassurance. The red of his blood soaked through his shirt and out of his mouth. He thought of Samuel, shot, having bled to death in the street. His body was slumped on the ground, eyes wide open and staring, unseeing, into the rain. His skin was as pale as sugar, except for where the bullet had entered his forehead. It had made him angry. Underneath that had only been hollowness.   
  
"Reckon it stopped knockin' a long time ago."  
"Do you want to stop talking now?"  
Somewhere in how raw and open his chest was, Arthur felt a fondness for Charles' question.  
"Yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a therapist! But I have been in therapy for a while, and these are some of the things I’ve learned.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more gore than usual in this one.

The river they followed was bloated and overflowing. The water brown and sharp, rushing far past the carved boarders of the natural embankment. Some trees had been swallowed up in it's cruelty.   
"We should head back down. River's getting too wild." Charles decided.   
"If we go back down the other way, might run into some elk."  
"That'll set us back a few days."  
" 'm in no big rush. Are you?"  
"No. Is that what you would like to do?" Arthur had begun to notice a small shift in Charles' inflection. He asked the question in the same way he'd asked him questions in the look out that morning; pointedly, carefully worded, requesting honesty.  
"Whatever you wanna do's fine."  
"You're allowed to want, you know."  
"I know." Charles looked back at him over his shoulder, dubious. And Arthur didn't know, not really. He'd wanted plenty in his life, but rarely did anything come of it. At some point, he'd shelved wanting. Had traded it for an automatic instinct to do whatever was best for his family. Maybe it had stopped knocking, too.  
"Think about it," Charles said gently, "tell me what _you_ want, right this moment."   
"Well, Dutch and them will be wanting - ."  
"No, no," he interrupted, "not Dutch. Not Hosea. You. What do _you_ want, Arthur?"  
"I _wanna_ tell ya. I just don't know."   
"Well, what makes you happy?"  
Arthur chuckled humorlessly. "I have absolutely no idea."  
Charles was quiet for a moment, staring into the raging riverbed. "What makes you feel peaceful?"  
"Suppose I wouldn't going back through that house."  
Charles smiled. "Let's do that then." 

In the early afternoon sun, they unsaddled their horses to let them graze in the field again.   
"What do you like about this place?" Charles asked as they watched them go.  
"Hm?"  
"What is it that made you want to come back here?"  
"Dunno. 's nice."  
"In what way?"  
Arthur gestured vaguely to the house, growing frustrated. "You know."  
"I don't, tell me."  
" _Why?_ Do I gotta feel some type a way about everything?"  
"If you look at it when its small, its easier to see when its big."  
"What's 'it?' "  
"Oh, you know," he mimicked, gesturing to Arthur's head vaguely. He sighed.   
"I like that you can see who's comin' and goin' from both ways," he began. "I like the wildflowers, and the lookout."  
"What's your favorite part?"  
"The wildflowers," he found that answer came easily.   
"Would you like to walk through them?"  
Arthur was surprised to find that he did, so he nodded.  
  
The flowers were a dazzling array of colors. Purples, pinks, oranges and of course a vast and shifting sea of greens. They were tall enough to tickle Arthur's waist, but only came up to Charles' hips. A small laugh bubbled to his lips as he waded through them, like deep water.  
"What are you thinking about?"  
"Wonderin' if I sit down if they'd be taller than me."  
"Do it, then," he encouraged gently. So he did. Cross legged on the ground, the stalks stretched far up and around him. He noticed a katydid, angular and strange. Arthur felt very small.   
"Can ya see me?"  
"No!" he sounded amused, and then suddenly he was there. Standing over Arthur, Charles overtook the sun. The leftover light spilled out around him and made him look like he was glowing. His smile was for Arthur, and it was wide and sincere. Charles held out his hand to help him up, and Arthur practiced wanting. He took the outstretched hand, big, calloused, soft, and pulled. Charles fell like a tree, and Arthur relished in the look of surprise on his face. He moved to roll out of the way, to let the larger man hit the dirt, but Charles didn't release his hand. His whole weight fell into Arthur's chest, pushing him back onto the ground and knocking the wind out of him. He gasped, trying to pull air back in. What he got was a lungful of Charles. It was that same earthy, warm smell of the tea he drank, hinting somewhere at mint, and it was sweat and his horse and the mountain they were on itself. Arthur could feel his breath, their faces were so close.   
"Charles," he rasped, "can't breathe!"  
"Sorry, what was that? You're facing the consequences of your actions?"  
His laugh was warm in Arthur's face, and his hair fell down loosely around them both like a thick curtain. Arthur went to push him off, but Charles grabbed his arms and pinned them down. He shifted his body so his knees were pressed down into the front of Arthur's thighs. Torsos flush, Arthur couldn't move an inch.   
" 'm serious!"   
"Oh can you not get up?"  
"Charles!" he begged.   
"Ask nicely."  
" _Please!"_ he wheezed, and Charles finally rolled off of him. He took few deep, ragged breaths, staring up at the clouds and feeling cold where Charles' body had been. He turned his head to look at the other man. He was leaned up on his side, face rested against his fist, watching Arthur plainly. The ghost of his laugh was still on his lips. Arthur thought that he looked softer right then than a dandelion, bristling with its silver tufts, falling away as soon as it was touched.   
"What do you want to do now?" Charles asked quietly.   
Arthur felt something bloom deep in his stomach, warm up his throat, tingling all over his body. It was a familiar feeling, that he realized very suddenly couldn't be anger. No, not in the face of this delicacy. Before he could think better of it, he reached up to move a piece of Charles' hair out of his face. The other man stilled, Arthur's fingers dusting the tip of his ear when he pulled his hand away. Like desperately looking for something and finally finding it, Arthur realized very suddenly that the warmth in his chest was longing. He wanted to touch Charles, feel his skin and taste his mouth, yank him back onto his lap and feel crushed by him. Arthur had to swallow against the rush of nervous energy he felt and the blush he knew was flooding his face. He looked back up at the sky, and tried to take even breaths.   
"Uh, actually, we should head back. Now, the quick way. Forgot I told...John I'd help him with...some stuff."   
Arthur did not dare look back at the other man, and just hoped the lie was not painfully obvious. He had never more resented being the muscle instead of a conman.  
"Oh okay. Sure, Arthur."   
He stood first and did not offer his hand to Charles to help him up.

* * *

Finally back to camp, Arthur rushed the buck they'd shot to Pearson.   
"Only one this time?" he quipped in what was probably a good natured way. But Arthur, more high strung than when he was in a shootout, glared at him.   
"How 'bout you come talk to me when you learn to make somethin' that ain't soup?"  
"It's not soup! It's much thicker than soup!" Pearson called after him, but Arthur had already turned away.  
  
He found Sadie alone behind the medical wagon, carefully changing the bandages on her upper arm. It was proving difficult, he could tell by the way she was cursing under her breath.   
"Need some help?"  
Sadie looked up and gave him a rare smile.   
"Yeah, thanks Arthur."  
He took the supplies from her and began cutting away the old gauze.   
"That's nasty," he couldn't help but comment as the fresh, dark wound was revealed.   
"Hurts like a bitch, too," but she didn't so much as flinch Arthur sanitized it. He wondered, as he had many times, what the circumstances of Sadie's old life had been. She spoke precious little of it, and in exchange asked precious little of Arthur. "Did you need somethin'?"  
"Just was wantin' to talk to you."  
"You're wantin' to talk an awful lot these days."  
She was teasing, but Arthur felt himself deflate a bit.  
"Sorry," he finished wrapping the new bandage and taking a step away from her, "Another time then."  
Sadie rolled her eyes, and took his arm to walk with him on their usual route.   
"How'd the job go?"  
"Eh," Said dismissed, unconsciously touching her injured arm. "Davey's a fool, but otherwise went fine. Got what he went for anyway."  
"Bout as much as you can ask for from Davey." Sadie laughed. Arthur looked back over his shoulder before he began speaking. He was trying to want, like Charles said he was allowed to. He knew he _wanted_ to talk to Sadie. Knowing that didn't dilute how nervous it made him.   
"Sadie, you ever heard of two women together?"  
Her head snapped up to look at him. "What?"  
"You know, romantic like. Two women."  
He did not recognize the look in Sadie's eyes. It looked panicked and he worried briefly that she was disgusted.   
"Uh, I mean. Yeah. Heard of it before."   
"What about two men?"  
Her surprise softened then, and a more quizzical look came over her face.   
"Yeah, heard of that too."  
"What you think about it?"  
"Not much. Not really anyone's business but theirs."   
"Yeah," Arthur exhaled.  
Before he could go on, Sadie added nervously, "Don't think they're any different than anybody else."  
"Me neither."   
A silence passed between them where they came upon the lake. Arthur bent down to find a flat rock, and offered it to his friend. Once he had one for himself, he stood back up. Turning it over in his hands, he spoke to the rock.   
"Think I might be that way."   
Sadie had been lining up her rock to skip when he spoke. It landed unceremoniously with a single, heavy, _plop_ in the water. But her tone remained even.   
"That so?"   
"Yeah."   
Arthur felt intensely vulnerable. He'd been hogtied with a gun in his face and never felt this wide open.   
"Since when?"  
Arthur shrugged, sending his own rock skidding across the water's surface. _Plunk, plunk, plunk, plop._  
"Since always, suppose. Just remembered though."  
"Remembered?"  
"I don't got the right words," he huffed, bending down to find another suitable rock. He chose a nice, gray, flat one. It was inexplicably smooth and when he brushed his thumb over it, he found it to be a very soothing sensation. It took some of the physical tension away, at least.   
"Why did you forget?"  
It was a reasonable question, but Arthur found when he went to reach for the answer, it hurt. Stung, like a jagger brush over sensitive skin. That was...strange. He was not used to this kind of pain. Even when he had thought of Samuel in the past, however briefly, he'd only ever felt cold. To his great surprise, the pain crept up his throat, nearly choking him and threatening to spill over. Arthur genuinely could not remember the last time he'd cried. He coughed, trying to banish this new rawness. It had started with Charles in that lookout, frigid and sharp. It was haunting him.   
"There was - ." His voice broke. Arthur felt betrayed by his own body, and tried to march through the feeling. "There was a - ! Jesus fucking Christ," he ran his thumb more aggressively over the rock, trying to find that soothing sensation again. Was this part of it? Of building the home, of wanting? It _hurt._ "Don't wanna talk about it," he finally got out.   
"Alright."  
A silence fell between them where they continued to skip rocks. Arthur kept the especially smooth one in his pocket, touching it occasionally.   
"Me too."  
"Huh?" Arthur asked, watching as his throw failed, rock bouncing off the side of the dock.   
"Bein' that way I mean. Me too."   
Arthur did not try to hide his shock. "What?"  
Sadie shrugged, somewhere between irritated and embarrassed.   
"Yeah. Don't look at me like that."   
"Sorry," Arthur looked back out at the lake. He could not help the laugher that suddenly spilled out of him.   
_"What?"_  
"We are quite the pair, ain't we?"  
Sadie's defensive expression faltered, and she smiled. When Arthur reached out to grab her shoulder, she touched his hand affectionately.   
"That we are."

  
In the coming evenings, Arthur found himself with more free time than he was used to. Their work was smooth; nearly honest gigs and small, careful jobs. When he could, he practiced wanting. After his confession to Sadie, he found he felt a little better. Calmer, not so separated from himself all the time. There were still long stretches of mind numbing stillness where he could only sit and look at his hands. Where they looked like someone else's hands, on someone else's body. Where his own mind felt foggy and dark and far away. And when he thought of Samuel, which he tried to do a little bit everyday, it hurt in a deep and jagged way that left him strangely exhausted. But he felt he owed the man's memory that much, after he'd deliberately shut it away for so long. So he tried.  
  
But when he couldn't do it, when he was too tired or too busy or just too loud inside, he thought of the other men since him. Men he'd felt deeply for, or even men he'd just wanted to fuck. Thought about how well he had convinced himself, been convinced, that it was not attraction. He even thought of Mary a bit, and how they had never been very fair to each other. But more often than he would care to admit, he thought of Charles. The weight of him on Arthur's body, his hair touching his face, his smell filling his nose. He thought of it and masturbated and felt bad about masturbating and then felt bad about feeling bad about it, because what was wrong with loving men, anyway? Nothing at all, he thought, especially since Sadie thought the same. So much thinking made him terribly tired, in all honesty. But still, Charles' advice was good and prudent and his giving it was more kindness than Arthur deserved. So he practiced wanting.   
  
He started small at first, just as instructed. From the bottom of his wooden chest, he dug out his favorite shirt. He never wore it, always afraid of staining or ripping it like he did all his other clothes. It was a light blue with thin white pinstripes, and was so, so soft. He found that putting it on gave him a small, strange joy, a sense of satisfaction. He chased that feeling. He started shaving and cleaning himself everyday, instead of just when he absolutely had to. He tried sugar in his coffee, and stretching before bed, and picking lavender, and a world of other small pleasures he never thought to indulge in. And at some point he found that yes, looking at it when it was small did make it easier to see when it was big. He still didn't know what _it_ was exactly. But he knew that one morning he woke up wanting something more than baths and flowers and soft clothing. He wanted an apology, or at least an acknowledge. He wanted to talk to Hosea. 

* * *

"Simon," Charles called, standing at the back of the provisions cart, "I don't suppose there are leather working tools laying around, are there?   
Charles had noticed that Pearson, despite his assertions, did not know how to skin an animal. Not the right way, anyway, not like Charles did. Not in a way that left nothing to waste.   
"There might be, actually. Root around in there, should be in a burlap sack. I was gonna start doing it myself, actually. Have some skins in salt out in the woods. Careful though," he warned, as Charles hoisted himself onto the cart, "they take some know how to use."  
With his back to the cook, Charles rolled his eyes. It took some searching, but eventually he found it.   
"Let me know if you need any help!" Pearson said as he took the bag to the edge of camp.   
"I won't, but thank you."  
  
The tools weren't in great condition. The scudding knife had some mold on it and he was a few pegs short of ideal. But, to his delight, there were bone leather needles that looked almost untouched. Hard to create and next to impossible to buy, he'd been most worried about them. And to his credit, Pearson _did_ have several skins curing in salt outside camp. Charles figured it was less a step in the leather making process and more an issue of scavengers, so he figured the other man wouldn't miss them. He dragged a large rabbit skin down to the lake to rinse before finally setting up an area for his work.   
  
He knew he was going to be rusty. It had been years since he'd had the opportunity to do it, but he trusted himself and his hands to recall the motions. Even then, he could close his eyes and remember the hours he spent working the skins with his mother. Her calm, warm voice and dexterous fingers, Charles' small form clumsily following her lead. Her telling him to feel fully, always. Cherish it or redirect it, but always to honor it, and honor himself. A precious memory and an invaluable skill, Charles considered leather working an almost quasi-religious experience. Something that made him feel connected to both himself and the eons of people before him doing the same work. Scudding the skin still made his hands sore, though.   
  
He remained deep in the motions of it through the day, until he realized he was having trouble seeing because the sun had begun to set. He was sore and tired and there was still a lot to be done. But he felt proud of the work and thankful that he had found a life where he could do it again. 

* * *

Finally, Arthur caught Hosea alone. It was quiet, early evening, and the older man was off on his own, reading.   
"Hosea?"  
"Hello Arthur," he smiled without looking up from his book.  
"You got a minute?"  
He did look up then. "Sure. Sit down." Arthur sat at the table with him. A little ways from camp, he felt they had a reasonable amount of privacy as long as they kept their voices down. "What's eatin' ya?"  
"Do you remember Samuel?"   
Hosea blinked, the pleasant curiosity dropping from his face. He looked away, out towards the trees.   
"Of course."  
"Been thinkin' about him lately."  
"Why's that?"  
"Just thinkin'."   
"Yes, well. I remember Samuel."   
Arthur took a few deep breaths. _Remembering this should hurt,_ he thought. Right then it did not feel like anything at all.  
"Why did you let him do it?"  
"I thought you would've asked me about this a long time ago."   
"Been tryin' not to think about it."  
"Mm. Yes, that's probably for the best."   
"But lately," Arthur continued, "I _have_ been thinkin' about it. And it wasn't right. Dutch shouldn'ta done that, not to one of our own."  
"He wasn't _ours,"_ Hosea reminded him gently, "you were his."  
"I cared for him," Arthur whispered.   
"I know."  
"That shoulda been enough."  
"He thought he was doing the right thing."  
Arthur scoffed. His chest felt cold.   
"What about you Hosea? Did you think you were doin' the _right thing?_ " There was a silence where he waited for an answer that was not coming, and Arthur's voice broke. "I went back, you know. Later that night. I went back to get him myself, 'sept they didn't wait till morning. They shot him in the street like a dog."  
And then it was there again, that hissing, sharp pain that came along with remembering. Hosea stopped drumming his fingers. He would not look at Arthur.  
"We couldn't let you go on like that. You were young, and he was taking advantage of you."  
"I loved him."  
"You were confused."  
Arthur slammed his fist against the table. " _God_ _dammit_ Hosea no I wasn't."  
"And what, Arthur?" he voice grew only slightly, a rare frustration in his tone. "He should've bailed you both out? Let you go on like that until we weren't there to save you and some hillbilly strung you up? He was trying to protect you."  
" _You_ shoulda protected me," he spit back at him.  
Arthur thought of the back of Dutch's hand, and how the jewel of his ring had cut his face. Thought about how he'd asked Dutch to _please, stop._ Thought about how Hosea had stood nearby but turned away. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, far away.   
"You're right, Arthur, you are. I was a coward. I'm sorry."   
Arthur let go of a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Somewhere in the mess of pain and rawness, the acknowledgement felt good. He tried to imagine what Charles would do.   
"Thank you, Hosea. I, um...I needed to hear that."   
The older man nodded slowly. "Why now?"  
"What?"  
"It's been years since all this happened. Why now?"   
"Oh, uh..." Arthur stumbled, face warming as he tried to come up with a lie. He took a moment too long.  
"There's another man, isn't there?"  
Arthur thought of Charles laying next to him in the field, of all but running away from him. "Not exactly."  
Hosea sighed and covered his eyes with his hand.   
"Please be careful, son."  
"Come on Hosea, I'm grown now, you don't need to worry 'bout that. If you think some lawman - !"  
"I'm not talking about the law, Arthur. I'm talking about Dutch."  
Arthur fell silent. He had not thought past talking to Hosea, had half believed he'd never make it this far at all.   
"You gonna tell him?"  
"No," he said quickly, lowering his hand to glance at Arthur. He saw sadness there, regret. "No, I think I owe you that much, at the very least. I won't make the same mistake twice."  
"What do ya mean?"  
Hosea took a deep breath before answering. "The plan was for _me_ to pay bail, for both of you. We weren't done with that city, didn't want to risk blowing out the side of the jailhouse. When I went in and they told me what they had you for...I panicked. I told Dutch. He took over from there."   
"Oh." Arthur felt Hosea take his hand and squeeze it gently.  
"I am so sorry, Arthur. I truly am. I don't...I don't feel any type of way about all that, about you being that way. I just didn't want you to get hurt."  
For the first time, Arthur found no anger when he went looking for it. " 's okay, Hosea. I know you didn't mean for it to happen. I forgive you."  
Hosea looked up at him, surprised.   
"You _forgive_ me? Did you fall and hit your head?"  
Arthur laughed and squeezed his father's hand back. "No, just been working on my anger, like ya told me to."  
"Wow," he chuckled, "I really did not thinking sending you on those trips with Charles would... " A look of realization passed over his face, "Ah."  
"It ain't like that," he said far too quickly.   
"Okay."  
"Hosea, I'm serious."  
"I believe you."   
Arthur looked at him, felt blush rising in his cheeks. Hosea's lip was quirked into a teasing smile.  
"Don't say nothin' to him," he huffed.   
"Well son _someone_ has to tell him what'll happen to him if he tries to get frisky with you." Hosea laughed loudly at his own joke as Arthur closed his eyes, taking his hand back to pinch the bridge of his nose. When he opened his eyes, Hosea was standing in front of him with his arms open. "Come now, give your old man - !"  
Arthur stood into his hug before he could finish his sentence. He felt him laugh quietly, and pat his back.   
"Be careful, okay? Please?"  
"I will be." 

* * *

If someone would have told Charles a few months ago that he'd be on a train heist with a group of outlaws, he would've laughed in their face. A stickup, sure, a pick pocketing, maybe. But this was big, bigger than anything he'd ever done or even thought of doing.  
  
When Arthur had approached him the day before, hands on his hips and his face screwed up into a serious expression, Charles had figured it was time to go hunting again.   
"Hey Charles."  
"Hello Arthur," he was sitting at the fire, kettle over the flames. "Would you like some tea? I'm using your lavender."  
Arthur jutted his chin out, a proud little smile on his mouth. It had been him, then. The other day, Charles had gone to his cot and found a small pile of freshly stemmed lavender leaves on his pillow. He'd looked around, noticed a few stalks of it on Arthur's bedside table, and smiled to himself.   
"That's alright, don't know that I'd like it."  
"Try it," he commanded, patting the seat on the log next to him. Arthur obeyed wordlessly, briefly knocking their knees together as he sat. Charles bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. Despite all his gravitas, he noticed that Arthur took orders from him almost automatically. He wasn't sure what to make of it. "How did you know I used lavender in my tea, anyway?"  
"Well, I, uh," he watched the other man grow nervous, and a blush crept up from his neck onto his face. _What a lovely pink_ , he couldn't help but think, and wondered how far down his chest the rouge extended. "I can smell it, when you make it. Smell the lavender."  
"You must have a very good nose," he mused, handing Arthur his mug after Charles took the first sip. It was strong, and fragrant from the fresh flowers. Arthur held it to his nose first, eyes fluttering closed as he inhaled.   
"Smells nice."  
"Tastes even better."   
  
He watched as Arthur turned the mug in his hands to put his lips where Charles' had been, and took a sip. A small, private gesture he would have missed if Arthur hadn't been dropping them more and more since that day in the wildflowers. In that moment in the grass, Charles had been surprised to find that Arthur was about to kiss him. He was a little disappointed when he didn't, but also relieved. Arthur was strange; emotionally flighty and temperamental. He clearly had some issues to work through. Charles did like him though, thought him funny and kind if a bit odd. He _wanted_ to help him if he could. But he couldn't fix him. You can't ever fix another person, not really. Trying was a fool's errand, he had learned that the hard way. Arthur had to do that work himself, with maybe a few pointers here and there.

" 's good," Arthur lied clearly, pulling a face. Charles put his hand over his on the mug and dropped a sugar cube in before dipping it back towards Arthur's lips. Like he said, a few pointers here and there. He was still very attracted to Arthur after all. No amount of idiosyncrasies could change that, apparently.   
"Try now." Arthur held his gaze as he took another sip, and Charles withdrew his hand.   
"Pretty good, actually," he sounded surprised. Charles smiled triumphantly.  
"I knew you'd like it."  
"Came over here to ask you somethin', actually."   
"What's that?"  
"You ain't gotta say yes."  
"Alright."  
"Ya know, if you ain't ready or...I dunno, ain't comfortable, or whatever."  
"Good to know."  
"Don't want ya to think that just cause you're runnin' with us now that you - ."  
"Spit it out, Arthur!" he laughed. Arthur chuckled along with him. He was surprisingly good at that, laughing at himself, when the teasing came from the right people.   
"Sorry. Dutch has this train job he wants us on. Need a few people. Could use you, if you like."  
Charles tried not to feel like Arthur was asking him on a date. _It's armed robbery_ , he told himself, _not dinner and a show.  
_"Sure, you can count on me."  
Arthur clapped his hand on Charles' shoulder, let it linger for just a moment too long.   
"Good man."   
  
And now, all because some emotionally stunted, pretty, white boy had batted his eyelashes at him, Charles was about to die. Or be horribly disfigured, at least.   
  
It had been going so well. Tilly had brought them really good intel; a cargo train moving through a quiet area at night. Few passengers and even fewer guards, it was low risk, but would only be worth the effort if they stole all they could carry.   
"Ain't nobody need to know we're on there," Arthur had said with that quiet authority of his. Charles had never seen him in action, but there was a certain mythos about him that he was eager to observe. "We get on quiet while they stop at the cargo station. John, you and I will come through the back. Sean and Mac, you got on near the front once it starts goin', meet us halfway. We should be able to surprise 'em, so subdue who ya can. If someone has to die, fine, but do it quiet."  
Charles saw no flicker of hesitation in Arthur's decision, and wondered distantly if he would ever develop that kind of callous disregard for human life.   
"Charles," Arthur looked to him, "need you to sneak up like you do on the conductor. Don't kill him if at all possible. We don't want the train stopping, maybe just slowing down so we can get off. No reason for anyone to see a stopped train and do somethin' silly like investigate it."  
  
A great plan; smart, conservative, and quick. Charles supposed it wasn't anyone's fault, but especially not his, that they were training an apprentice conductor that night. That Charles hadn't heard him come up behind him over the roar of the engine. But it didn't matter who's fault it was at that point, as the man had him pushed over the boiler. Only his one free hand, pushed against the violent heat of the metal, kept him from being blinded, possibly killed if they held him there long enough. Melted, like candle wax. His hand was quickly being burned, the stink of singed flesh filling his nostrils. With his other hand pinned behind his back, he tried to kick at his captor, but was having trouble putting any force behind it with his only leverage being white hot metal.   
"Just grab his gun and shoot him!"   
"We don't gotta kill him!"   
"Yes we _do_ Ned! Before his friends get here!"   
"He wasn't gonna kill me! Just holding me still," the conductor crouched down to look Charles in the eye. He was older, probably in his mid-fifties. He had a mess of tight, salt and pepper curls peaking out from under his hat. His green eyes were desperate and afraid.   
"Leroy is gonna let you up, alright? But you gotta get gone, soon as we - !"   
_pop pop_  
Charles watched as a bullet flew out of the Ned's head, taking bits of brain and skull with it. One eye filled with blood before his body dropped. When the pressure on his back lapsed, Charles automatically pulled away from the heat. But it took him another moment to tear his eyes away from the body at his feet to see the apprentice, Leroy, on the ground behind him. He was gasping for air that would never reach his lungs. His throat had ben torn open by the bullet, and was spitting blood from under the hand he had pressed to it. He looked up at Charles, frantic. Couldn't be more than twenty years old. Charles looked away to see Arthur with his revolver out. It had to have been a nearly impossible shot the way they'd been standing. He would have been impressed under any other circumstances. Arthur aimed, and Charles listened but did not watch as he put Leroy out of his misery. There was a certain excitement, a crackling energy, in the other man's eyes. Playfully, like he hadn't just executed two men who's only crime had been being at work, Arthur raised his revolver to his lips and blew the smoke from the barrel.  
"What?" he said defensively, noticing Charles' expression. Before he could respond, the shock of the moment passed and he felt a blinding pain shoot up from his palm. He hissed, grabbing his arm as Arthur approached him.  
"Let me see,” he demanded, irritation replaced with concern. Charles could not merge the two images of Arthur he had in his head; one delicately holding his wounded hand, the other shooting two unarmed men. "Looks pretty bad," he offered quietly. He was right; layers of skin were gone from his palm, bleeding that strange, thick blood that comes from burns. Quickly, Arthur took off the bandana he was using to hide his face and wrapped it tightly around the wound.   
"Arthur!" John called from behind them, "help me get this shit off here!"  
"Yeah I'm comin'," he called. When he looked back to Charles, his expression was very serious. "Can you stop the train? Can't let it go on with no driver."  
Charles nodded, and Arthur returned it curtly before leaving. It wasn't easy, but Charles was strong even with only one hand. After some effort, he managed to get the brake lever down and the train groaned loudly, slowing. He panicked when he heard unfamiliar voices shouting in the distance, but he didn't have to worry for long.   
"Smith!" Mac called from off the side of the train. His horse was barely trotting to keep up with the slowing engine, Taima behind him. Charles took one last look at the dead men at his feet, _Ned and Leroy_ , he recalled dutifully, before he returned to his horse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was becoming very Arthur focused, naturally because I'm shouldering him with all of my issues and resolving them the way I'll never be able to, so I'm trying to do better by Charles. Someone on tumblr.hell was talking about how a lot of fics do him a disservice by not fleshing him out and putting him into this simplified "good" role who just "fixes" Arthur. I agree with that, so I tried to make an effort to not do that, while maintaining that he is an emotionally mature man. 
> 
> If you're interested in knowing more about how I am having Arthur "cope" with his trauma, look up emotional numbing and disassociation. I can tell you from personal experience that when you begin unstopping your emotional bottle, that shit HURTS!
> 
> Fuck tho for real can you imagine your parent acknowledging, APOLOGIZING even, for how they've wronged you? Hosea be my dad challenge
> 
> Also: “WHATEVER Dutch my friend Sadie said being gay is COOL”


	4. Chapter 4

The Van der Linde gang moved on the next morning. It was leisurely - they were not being chased out. But Hosea thought that they shouldn't linger any longer than they needed to. Neither him nor Dutch seemed too concerned that their plan had gone slightly awry, seemingly satisfied with their haul and their not being directly seen by the law.   
"Poor bastards," Dutch had sighed, "hate to see innocents die. What happened?"  
Arthur's eyes had flickered to Charles.   
"It was us or them."  
  
Charles had been worried they would cut him loose because of his injury. He was little use without his hand, and it would take weeks for it to fully heal. But to his equal parts relief and annoyance, he'd been bandaged and loaded into the cart with the women without being allowed to lift a finger.   
"Looks like you're ours for a while," Karen had teased, climbing in beside him as the sun began to peak over the horizon. Charles smiled but said nothing. He hadn't slept the few hours between their return and his departure, mind still reeling. The two conductors were far from the first people he had watched die, had garnered a fair amount of blood on his own hands over the years. And ultimately, he _was_ grateful to Arthur. He had no idea whether or not they would've decided to kill him after all. But they hadn't been violent, just afraid and trying to survive. Watching Ned lose his life as he was bargaining for Charles' own left him jarred, and Arthur's demeanor surrounding it was disconcerting. He thought of Arthur in the field gently fixing Charles' hair, and Arthur with the barrel of his smoking gun pressed playfully to his lips, and wondered how it was the same man.   
  
When they finally got moving, Molly asked after Sadie.   
"She isn't like us," Miss Grimshaw had tutted, unimpressed. "She's one of the men."   
And indeed when Charles looked around, he could see her far at the back of their procession riding next to Bill.   
"Oh, hop off it Susan," Karen sighed, leaning back against the cart. Charles got the impression this wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation. He hadn't really thought about Sadie's position in the gang as opposed to all the other women's, but it made sense that there was some contention. Karen was the only other woman he'd seen carry a gun regularly.   
"Wish I could wear pants too," Tilly grumbled. Just as Charles went to ask why she couldn't, Miss Grimshaw spoke again.   
"No you don't, Tilly. It's unnatural. Makes women act unnatural."  
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Karen asked. Mary-Beth was pointedly quiet, head bent over a book that she clearly wasn't reading.   
"You know exactly what I mean, Miss Jones. Ain't right, running with the men like that. Makes you want unnatural - ."   
"I don't want to hear another word against Ms. Adler," Molly interrupted confidently, chin held high. Charles shook his head quickly in agreement, and Molly smiled at him. It certainly wasn't his place to stand up to Susan, but whether it was because Molly had a small tug of authority being Dutch's woman or because she was outnumbered, it was dropped.   
  
"So," Tilly started, a slightly tense time later, "where'd you come from anyway?"  
It was directed at Charles and he realized he had never had this conversation with them. Any conversation of substance, really. It wasn't purposeful, just that he had fallen quickly and easily into step with the other men. John specifically he had grown especially close to. They often sat together for dinner or to play cards during the day. Once in a while, John would even stop by his tent to shoot the shit or ask Charles about his day. It was new for Charles to just have a buddy around who chose to spend time his down time with him. It was nice, he thought, and once again felt very lucky to have run into Dutch.   
"Up north," he told Tilly vaguely.   
"That where your tribe is?" Mary-Beth piped up, closing her book around her index finger to hold her place.   
"I don't really have one of those."   
"You're native though, aren't you?"  
"Half. My father was black."   
"I didn't know that," Tilly said. Charles had noticed on his arrival that she was the only other person of color in the gang. He wondered what that had been like, was still like, being a women on top of that. He thought he would try to ask her about it if they ever had a moment alone. In that moment he just shrugged, unsure of how to respond. "Who'd you run with then, up north?"  
"Usually it was just me. Spent some time with another person every once in a while but never like this."   
"What, you leave a woman up there?" Karen winked at him. Charles just laughed and shook his head, leaning back against the cart to try and nap a bit. He thought of the rancher he would wonder back to every fall to get some work during the harvest. For a few years it had been his only constant, until suddenly he lost that too.   
  
Arthur and John came back from scouting for a campground, gesturing east it looked like. Charles had hoped they would ride straight on through the area, swampy and wet as it was, but soon enough they were turning from the main road. Over a small bridge that was just about level with the mud it was meant to protect against, they came upon an abandoned little settlement. A few small shacks were scattered around in varying levels of decay with one larger house near the entrance. Beyond that was a wall of thick willows and marsh, and Charles thought he could just see a more substantial swamp past it. There was only one way in or out: over the bridge like a dirty and dilapidated moat securing them from possible ambushes. Human ambush, at least. Swamps were more dangerous than most people gave them credit for so he kept his eye out for the telltale shape of a crocodile. Dutch seemed pleased, slapping Arthur on the back when he dismounted his horse. He thought he saw Arthur flinch, but couldn't be sure.   
  
Charles tried to help set up but was quickly banished to do something less labor intensive. It was early evening, and Miss Grimshaw "allowed" him to get the fire ready at the center of the settlement. He did not particularly want to; the heat here was oppressive even without the sun. Being late summer, the entire state was predictably humid. But their last site had been much more bearable. Cool breezes would tumble down the hillside over them and there was clean, cool water available at the lake. There were no such pleasures here. Charles was sweating and his long hair stuck to his face and neck. He was resilient, could normally deal with heat even if he hated it, but his hand made even the simplest pleasure of braiding his hair back away from his face impossible. He sat at the fire trying anyways.   
"Having a tough time?" Sadie asked as she approached, arms full of furs to lay out.   
Charles sighed, letting his hands fall back to his lap. "It's this fucking hand."  
"Figured. Nasty spot to get hurt. What happened anyway? Ya get shot?"  
"Burnt, actually."  
"Eh, don't feel so bad then. Look where you're goin' next time, Smith." Sadie's tone was serious but her smile was playful. Charles chuckled.   
"Yeah, I'll try to keep that in mind next time I'm being held against my will."   
"Good," she stood up straight, handing the last fur to Charles for him to sit on. "You need some help?"  
Charles glanced up at Sadie. They'd spent some time together and he liked her a lot but she was not especially personable.   
"Really?" she shrugged with that same small smile. "Sure, Sadie. That would be great, thank you."  
"Sure. Arthur!" she called over her shoulder. He had been walking towards the back of the settlement, his wooden chest balanced against his hip.   
"What?"  
"Come 'ere!" she looked back to Charles. "I'm shit at it, though."  
"Why?" Arthur yelled back.   
"Cause I said so!"   
"It's really okay," Charles quipped, moving to sit on the fur he'd been given. She ignored him and he watched Arthur drop his chest before walking over.   
" _What?"_   
"Oh calm down. Charles needs your help braidin' his hair." She clapped Arthur on the shoulder before leaving without waiting for his response.  
  
Arthur glanced down at him. He felt uncharacteristically nervous under his gaze. But not unsafe in the slightest- the callousness he'd observed in the other man had been in his defense, after all.   
"Yeah?"  
"If you don't mind. It's hard with my hand."  
"Sure," he knelt behind Charles, but didn't touch him. "One or two?"  
"What?"  
"Braids. One or two or...however many?"  
Charles smiled at the question. "Two."  
Only then did Arthur reach out to carefully pull all of Charles' hair back towards him.   
"You got a comb?"  
"Do you need one to braid?"  
"You want it to look nice?" Arthur bristled, just a little.   
"I do, but it's somewhere in one of these carts."   
Arthur sighed and detangled Charles' hair with his fingers, before carefully parting it down the middle. He did it all with a gentleness that Charles did not think possible, his fingers delicate and exact in his hair. It felt amazing having his hair fiddled with like this. He couldn't remember the last time anyone except him had done it.   
"How tight?"   
"Not too tight, but I want them to stay in so I don't have to keep asking for your help."   
"You can always ask for my help," he said quietly, and began separating the hair right against Charles' skull. It was tight, but not painful, and Charles couldn't help but to sigh into the touch. Arthur's hands fumbled when he did, and he cursed quietly when the braid fell apart. "Sorry."  
"Don't apologize."  
"Alright."  
  
Arthur finished the plait and held out his hand for one of the leather bands Charles used, and moved on to the other side.   
"Where did you learn to braid?"  
"Oh, I do Fae's mane sometimes." Which wasn't an answer to the question Charles asked, but he was interested in it anyway.   
"Fae?"  
"My horse."  
"Mm. That's pretty. Like fairies?"  
"Yeah."  
"Why Fae?"  
Charles turned slightly to see if he was shrugging like he knew he was, and his hair slipped from Arthur's hands.   
"Dammit Charles," he sighed with no venom. He liked the way Arthur said his name, one long vowel in his drawl.   
"Sorry."  
"Don't apologize." A pause where Arthur began the plait again. "Fae cause she's all white, like in a storybook."   
Charles was glad his back was to Arthur, was certain he wouldn't have appreciated the grin that spread onto his face.   
"Read a lot of storybooks?"  
"Yeah, you know, when I was learnin' to read. That and these god awful classics Dutch insisted on. Boring as all hell."   
"He had you reading classics as a kid?"  
"Wasn't much of a kid when I finally learned." Charles remembered that Arthur hadn't met Dutch until he was fourteen, and found it hard to imagine going so long without knowing how to read.   
"Mm."  
“What’s your horse called?”  
”Taima.”  
”What’s that mean?”  
"Mean?"  
"Yeah."  
”Just because I’m Native doesn’t mean everything has some secret meaning.” Charles teased, but kept his voice very serious.  
“Oh, ’m sorry, didn’t mean to-.”  
”Thunder.”  
”Huh?”  
”Taima means thunder.”  
Arthur chuckled quietly. Charles could feel the warmth of it on the back of his neck. He tied off the other braid and touched Charles' shoulder when he stood. "All done."   
"They feel perfect."  
"Mm, they're alright for not having a comb."   
"I can feel that they're more than -."  
"Smith!" Mac approached suddenly, easy smile on his face. "If you're finished getting your hair done, we're checking out this town nearby. Get a few drinks, celebrate the job."   
Charles wasn't sure it went well enough to warrant a celebration, but was tempted by that camaraderie he'd never been afforded. Despite his exhaustion he nodded.  
"Yeah, alright." He turned to Arthur. "You coming too?"  
"Oh, yeah," Mac seemed to just realize the other man was standing there. "Arthur too."   
His tone wasn't very inviting, and he watched Arthur's eyes flicker between them. Charles smiled in what he hoped was an encouraging way.   
"No, that's alright."   
"Come," Charles insisted and for the first time Arthur resisted his order.   
"Nah, I got stuff to do here. Y'all have fun. And don't be morons, keep your guns away," he added seriously before walking back towards his abandoned chest. 

* * *

Arthur was the first to notice when Mac, John, and Sean returned without Charles. He'd taken the shack towards the back of camp, probably designed to be more of a look-out than a home. It was one room with two windows and Arthur ended up throwing out the molded bed for his own cot. Outside had been an old cable spool, and after a little cleaning he rolled it inside to use as a bedside table. He put an oil lamp on it, and when he turned it on he realized there were a set of shelves built into the wall. It was the first time he'd had access to his own shelves; a humble luxury he had never thought to desire. He put his chest at the end of the bed and dug through it for something to put on the shelf. He had a few books and pictures and chachkies, but they barely filled the first shelf. Still he thought it cozied up nicely. He laid down with the two windows cracked slightly so a steady breeze blew through the cabin while he drifted off to sleep. He dreamt briefly of running his fingers through long, soft hair.   
  
Rowdy voices woke him hours later. It was so late it was early, the night sky beginning to lighten in the impending dawn. He wondered out towards the noise still half asleep. A few other people were stirring more slowly. Dutch stepped out of his own shack, eyes narrow.   
"Would you lot quiet the hell down!" he yelled, words heavy with exhaustion.   
"Sorry, Dutch," John slurred, sliding clumsily off his horse instead of dismounting. Arthur _did_ try to catch Mac before he fell off his own horse, face first into the mud. But he probably could've tried a little harder.   
"Thanks, Morgan," he grumbled as he got up onto his hand and knees. Arthur did a lousy job of suppressing his laughter.   
"Where's Charles?"  
"Charles, Charles, Charles," Sean repeated nonsensically, "always Charles."   
"Mm, sheriff tossed him in the drunk tank." John walked up to Arthur and grabbed his shoulder to steady himself.   
"Charles was drunker thank y'all?"   
"No, actually," John's face screwed up in thought, clearly trying to pick through hazy memories, "Was actually fine. Well, better than us, 'least." He laughed and reached down to pull Mac to his feet, who looked dangerously close to being sick.   
"Then _what happened?"_   
"Told ya! Move," John pushed past him, making a beeline for his cot. Arthur sighed and saddled up. 

  
The sun had risen by the time he arrived. He'd spent the entire ride with a sinking worry that Charles would not be there. That the law, cruel and thoughtless, had acted already. That he would ride up, rain and darkness pounding on his back, and would be too late. That he would come upon his body - dirty and cold and alone.   
  
He pushed open the door with too much force, and the deputy immediately stood up from his desk, hand on his belt. But Arthur was not looking at him. He scanned the cells, searching for the familiar slopes of Charles' body. Finally he found him, head tipped back against the wall and eyes closed. Arthur released a breath he didn't realize he had been holding.   
"Can I help - !" the deputy tried to begin.   
"Charles!" he couldn't help but call out. He opened his eyes at that, and when Arthur waved, a small smile crept onto his face despite the circumstances. He looked back to the deputy. "Here for my friend."  
The young man, maybe twenty-one, eyed him suspiciously. "Your _friend_ was piss drunk and disturbing the peace."  
Arthur's eyes flickered back to Charles, who was glowering at the deputy's back.   
"I very much doubt that."  
"Don't much care what you do and don't believe."   
Arthur put his hands on his hips. Not on his gun belt, not a threat, but close.   
"Well, looks plenty sober now. How's about you open up that cell and we'll be on our way."   
"Sheriff said to keep him till he came back." The man jutted his chin out in a show of what was clearly false confidence, if his voice was any indication. Arthur's eyebrows perked up at the resistance. There was only the three of them in here, the town still sleepy at this hour. He glanced back over to Charles, who shook his head, seeming to read his mind.   
"Your boss ain't here though, is he?" when he didn't respond, Arthur continued, "but I sure am."   
He smiled down at the deputy in what was more a snarl than anything. The man's hands shook while he looked for the right key to Charles' cell. 

"Thank you," Charles said quietly as they mounted up, Taima nudging him for attention. Arthur lit a cigarette and handed it to him. He let the other man take a deep puff on it before he began speaking.   
"What happened?"  
Charles shook his head. He looked exhausted; dark circles under his bloodshot eyes and clothes wrinkled. His braids had help up admirably but were frayed. He wondered if Charles would ask him to redo them.   
"We were fucking around, apparently too much," he said cryptically, riding after Arthur out of town.   
"Were you really on one more than the boys? Mac came back to camp, fell right off his - ."  
"No, I wasn't," he said flatly.   
"What'd you do so bad then?"  
"Looked like this."   
Arthur glanced back over his shoulder, but Charles was not looking at him. He had that stony, unreadable look about him and Arthur felt sharp anger rush through his chest like bloated, white rapids.  
"Wanna go back and kill him?"  
"Arthur - ."  
" 'm serious. Got no plans today." That earned him a small chuckle, quiet as it was. But Arthur _was_ serious.   
"Let's just go."  
"Alright. Offer stands though."   
"I'll keep that in mind."   
Arthur looked back to the road ahead of them, but he nursed that quiet fury in his chest, itching at him like a bug bite.   
  


Arthur spoke up again when they passed the orchard he'd noticed scouting.   
"You like peaches, Charles?"  
"Sure."  
"Let's stop here a second then."  
Charles didn't question it, just followed him to hitch their horses at the dilapidated fence off the road. Arthur looked over the nearby trees. The orchard had been abandoned for probably several harvests, and scavengers had picked over most of the fruit that did manage to grow. But he'd seen a few hiding high in the branches, he thought.   
"I hope you don't mean to eat these," Charles gestured to his boot where he had stepped on a peach, abandoned and rotting on the ground.   
"Not _those,"_ Arthur squinted against the morning sun, searching the tops of the trees. "There."   
He walked to the tree and hoisted himself into it. Arthur knew he was no spring chicken, but was still surprised when his foot slipped on a branch and he smacked his face into the tree trunk.  
"You okay old man?" Charles laughed from below him. Arthur grumbled something unintelligible and continued to ascend. Finally, closer to the very top of than he would have liked, he found what he was looking for: two unblemished peaches. He plucked them and descended carefully.   
"Here," he said, handing Charles one. Arthur's hands were sticky, the peaches overripe, but he barely noticed it the way Charles was smiling at him.   
"Thank you, Arthur."  
He felt his cheeks grow warm at the sincerity of his voice. He tilted the brim of his hat down to cover his face.   
"Yeah, well."   
Charles bit into his first, a fresh _crunch._ "It's good," he nodded, mouth full. But Arthur's was overripe. When he bit it, the juice leaked down his chin and neck, on the collar of his shirt and over his fingers.   
"Dammit," he huffed, but Charles' laugh was so light and happy that he couldn't help but smile too. He thought it was maybe the first time he'd seen the other man laugh like this - all open and surprised, showing his teeth. The midday sunlight got broken up in the leaves over their heads and sprinkled down onto Charles. He still looked tired and maybe a little dirty from spending the night in a cell, but even that did not diminish the flurry of excitement Arthur felt being alone with him. He wasn't sure he'd ever found another man beautiful the way he did Charles. It was as if every line of him was purposeful, marked down carefully by a skilled hand. He had tried, more times than he was willing to admit, to put Charles' likeness to paper himself. He still hadn't gotten it quite right. Without warning, Charles reached up to drag his index finger from Arthur's clavicle to his chin, wiping away some of the juice there. Arthur had the sudden urge to put Charles' juice coated fingers in his mouth. He felt his face burn at the image but did his best not to look away.   
  
"I been takin' your advice," he said quietly, "or tryin' to, anyway."   
"Mm. About your terrible coffee?"  
"Hey now, it ain't terrible."  
"Alright," he smiled, "What advice, then?"  
"Buildin' the house. Wantin'." Charles hummed. " 's tough."  
"It is. It's important work."  
"Yeah. Startin' to understand what you meant by that."  
"That so?"  
"Mhm."   
"What have you wanted that you've given yourself?"  
"Wearin' my favorite shirt," he said proudly, then felt a bit foolish. Charles smiled.   
"It's a good shirt. What else?"  
"Talked with Hosea."   
He hummed again, taking another bite of his peach. His lips were wet with it, fully and glossy, and Arthur did not think about whether or not the taste of his own tobacco lingered on Charles’ tongue.   
"What about?"  
  
Arthur looked down at his feet, trying to see past the wall of anxiety that overpowered him in moments like this. Absentmindedly, he reached into his pocket to run his fingers over the smooth rock from the lake. He wasn't worried anymore that Charles would be surprised by his feelings. The night they returned from their hunting trip Arthur had stared up at his tent, unable to fall asleep. He had realized only then that he had been about to kiss Charles in that field. Would've, if he hadn't panicked. But that wasn't even what kept him up that night, and many nights since. What kept him laying awake, a thin layer of sweat on his forehead and his fists knotted in the sheet, was that Charles would've let him. Would've lifted his mouth to meet his, maybe. He'd gotten only more certain in the following weeks, experimenting with side glances and lingering touches. But that certainty did little to put him at ease when Charles was looking at him like he could see every thought bouncing around in his mind.   
  
"Somebody ever wronged ya but you didn't do anything about it? And it just kinda...sits in ya?" Charles nodded. "It was like that. Happened a long time ago, but I just needed to hear him say it I guess."  
"Acknowledge it?"  
"Sure."  
"What happened?"  
"Ah, was a long time ago."  
"That's not what I asked."   
Arthur looked back up at him, at his brown eyes that were somehow both patient and attentive. "I know."   
"Do you want to talk about it?"  
Something about that question, poised so gently in Charles' rich timber, made him feel cared for. It lit a small spark of desire in him.   
"Nah."  
"Okay."  
  
"Well," Arthur looked down at this feet again, suddenly nervous. "Suppose we should head back now."  
Charles did not speak until Arthur looked back up at him. His gaze was intense, no longer looking tired.   
"Is that what you want to do?"  
"Huh?"  
"I thought you said you were practicing wanting?"   
"I am."  
Charles' face was closer now, but Arthur couldn't say who had closed the distance. The branches over them hung low like a ceiling and he had the thrilling sensation that the only thing that existed in the world was Charles, here, so close to his face.   
"Prove it."   
  
Arthur had always preferred a command.   
  
He took Charles' face in his hands and kissed him. It was hard and inpatient and when his back slammed into the tree he barely registered it. Could only feel how Charles was pressed up against him, one leg between Arthur's own, hands gripping his hips. When Arthur licked into his mouth, he moaned for how sweet it tasted. Peaches, mint tobacco, and a hint of last night's whisky - it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. Charles smiled against the noise, his long lashes fluttering against Arthur's face when he opened his eyes.   
"What?"  
"What?" Arthur asked, breathless. He moved to kiss Charles again, but was held away.   
"Do that again."  
The innate urge he felt to obey Charles nearly won out, but he stayed composed. Despite how red he knew he was, despite the thunder in his chest, he held Charles' steady gaze.   
"Make me."  
  
Instantly, Charles was pressed back up against him. He kissed at the soft skin under Arthur's ear, the sharpness of his stubble scratching at his neck. It teetered on the edge of painful, but Arthur sighed happily at the sensation. He pushed his hands up under the back of Charles' shirt to feel the warm expanse of his back, and let his head fall back against the tree. His hat tumbled onto the ground somewhere as his mind grew hazy with desire. He'd forgotten how _good_ it was with another man. But not just any man, either. Charles, tall and strong and unwavering, a cliffside against which Arthur was crashing. Grabbing the collar of his shirt, he pulled Charles up into another kiss and was delighted to feel him panting, as lost in the moment as he was. When he took Arthur's lower lip between his teeth and bit carefully, Arthur bucked his hips up involuntarily. The movement seemed to surprise him, but only for a second before he grabbed at Arthur's waist again. When his knee rubbed up against the bulge in Arthur's jeans he did moan again, loud and needy, into Charles' open mouth.   
"Charles," he groaned, grabbing a handful of the hair now falling loose from their braids. He pulled it when he rubbed against him again, "Charles - !"  
  
"Hello?" someone called form behind them, voice thick with an eastern European accent. Charles' hands froze, his fingers dipped into the waist of Arthur's jeans. In his rush to remove his hands form Charles' hair, he yanked it sharply.   
"Ouch, shit," he hissed, untangling Arthur's hand from him.   
"Sorry."  
  
They parted moments before the man came into view. He was older, wearing overalls and a sun hat. He sized them up, brows furrowed. Arthur glanced at Charles out of the corner of his eye. His hair was in disarray with almost nothing left in the plaits. He was trying to casually smooth his shirt back into place, and his lips were wet and red. Arthur couldn't image he looked any more innocent. He realized suddenly that two extra buttons on his shirt were open, collar jerked to the side to expose the skin of his neck where the other man's mouth had been. He didn't dare move to fix it and just hoped the farmer wouldn't notice.   
  
"What you doing out here?"  
"Just, uh," he looked around for the peach he'd dropped in favor of burying his hands into Charles' hair. He picked it up and it was covered in dirt. "Eatin' peaches."  
Charles sighed next to him.   
"This is private property. You are thief." Mercifully, he seemed more interested in this than the way Arthur held his hand to cover his pelvis.   
"Ya, thought it was abandoned, way it looks."  
"You insult my farm?"  
"No," Charles took over, "here. We were just leaving."   
He handed the man two dollars and Arthur guffawed. The farmer smiled, seemingly satisfied.   
"This is all I ask. Fair payment."   
  
He tucked the money away and watched the pair leave.  
"Can get a peach for a penny," he huffed as they made their way back through the orchard.   
"Hush," Charles said, but he had a fond smile on his face. In a poor imitation of Arthur's drawl, he mocked, " _Eatin' peaches_."  
"We _was_. And that ain't how I sound."   
When they got back to the horses, Charles glanced around before grabbing the front of Arthur's shirt and pulling him in for another quick kiss. He made a surprised noise and then it was over, Charles smiling as he climbed onto Taima.   
"Coming?"  
"Uh," Arthur stuttered, taken off guard. He reached out to fiddle with Fae's reins. "Actually got some business back in town."  
Charles cocked his head to the side. "Want me to come?"  
"Nah, that's alright. Figure you've had enough of that place by now. I'll see ya back at camp."  
Charles looked for a moment like he wanted to question him, but his exhaustion must have won out.   
"Alright. See you, then."   
Arthur nodded at him before he mounted Fae and turned her back towards town. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this took longer than I thought to update! I rewrote several of these scenes a few times and it still isn't exactly the way I want it, but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> I took some artistic liberties re: the period appropriate language for Native/black people and whether or not peaches would grow in the everglades.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long! I am applying to law school and neglecting that also so I guess it's not much of an excuse 
> 
> tw: a racial slur (the one that used to be a football team)

Charles took his time riding back to camp, his mind still reeling. It felt like it hadn't stopped since he'd stepped onto that train.  
  
Had that really only been a few days ago?  
  
Charles once again had the strange realization that his life had come to a wholly unexpected juncture. Undoing what was left of his braids, he tried to use his fingers to comb through the mess his hair had become. When he yanked at a particularly stubborn knot, he immediately thought back to Arthur writhing under him. Pulling his hair, groaning his name when Charles touched him right, voice thick and sweet like honey. A warm heat pooled in his stomach when he thought of how Arthur had clutched at him, all desperate and wanting. He wasn't totally sure how they'd ended up here, where ever _here_ was, but he was glad for it.   
He'd never admit to it, but he'd spent his evening in jail cursing the entire gang. Had said that as soon as he was free, he was moving on. He wasn't totally sure he would've followed through, but the idea left his mind as soon as he saw Arthur standing in the doorway that morning. Charles could more than take care of himself, had for the past decade. That wasn't the issue. What had him angry was that this was why he'd joined the gang at all. Dutch had promised him protection - family, community, some semblance of safety, or at least the assurance of backup. Last night had been painfully familiar; people he thought were his friends leaving when things got hairy.

John Marston himself was keeping watch when Charles finally got back. When he rode in, the younger man was sitting up against a tree, his hat angled down to hide his sleeping face from the late afternoon sun. As he got closer, John woke with a start.   
  
"Oh, Charles," he smiled, "you're alright." Charles nodded but he did not slow Taima. "Where's Arthur? Thought he went to get you."  
"He did."  
"Where - hey, wait," John stood and walked after him, so Charles stopped Taima to look down at his friend.   
"Yes?"  
"You okay?"  
Charles gestured to himself. "Apparently so."   
"Uh, good."  
In the ensuing silence, Charles heard a crow caw.   
"That all?"  
"I guess," John shoved his hands deep into his pockets, looking up at the trees. But when Charles turned back towards the trail, he continued. "I'm sorry and shit. I wasn't thinkin' straight."  
"Weren't walking straight, either."   
John huffed out a breath, a poor imitation of his laugh. Charles could really see his age right then - barely twenty.   
"Sorry," he repeated.   
"Thank you."  
"You still mad?" he asked, like a child. 

  
The previous night, Charles had been playing poker with a few young ranch hands. John had a working girl in his lap, and Sean had just followed another upstairs. He'd lost track of Mac some time ago, more focused on the game in front of him. Charles had always been very good at poker. His neutrality, a defense mechanism honed to perfection, lended itself well to the game. He had no tells and wore a carefully blank expression, despite having just been dealt a straight flush. He finished off his beer before laying his cards down for the table to see. The man to his right groaned, but ultimately clapped his shoulder in congratulations. The man across from him did not.   
So, when he returned with the sheriff's deputy it was not a total surprise. But John's nonchalance had been.   
"John," he'd hissed when the deputy took the winnings from Charles' hand.  
"It's alright, Charles," he'd slurred, hand firm on the waist of the woman in his lap. "Just sleep it off, it's fine."  
"Come on, redskin," the deputy huffed, taking Charles' arm.   
_"John,"_ he urged again, pulling himself from his grip. A panic was beginning to seize him. There was no accountability for the law, not for people like Charles.   
"It's _fine!_ See you in a little!" and John had turned back to his guest. Too stunned to do much else, Charles let himself be escorted to the cell next door. 

  
John stood below him, waiting for his answer. Charles was still angry - wildly so, if he was being honest with himself. But looking down at the younger man, expectant and eager, he knew he would never understand.   
"No."  
John smiled at that, and nodded as he sat back down. "Good, good. I'll be talking to you later, then."  
He did not respond. 

  
Hours later, Charles woke up in a daze. After days of barely any sleep, he'd dragged himself into his cot as soon as he could. Now, in the darkness of the night, he was disoriented. His room in the main house was shared by John, Davey, and Mac, who were all sound asleep. Well, Davey was snoring loudly and John mumbles to himself in his sleep, but they were unconscious. Charles sat up, feeling sleep drunk. His eyes were puffy and the fabric of his blanket was imprinted on his face. Out the window, he could just make out the dying embers of the main fire. It must be really late, then. Beyond that, he thought he could see the soft glow of a lantern in the lone shack at the back of camp.   
  
When he knocked on that door, gently as he did, there was was scramble of movement inside.   
"Yes?" Arthur grumbled without opening the door. Charles imagined he was wearing that grumpy little scowl of his, and got impatient. He opened the door to find Arthur sitting on his bed, journal open in his lap. he had a smudge of graphite on his chin from where he'd been tapping his pencil.   
"Oh," Arthur breathed, leaning back against the wall, "hi Charles, shoulda said it was - !"  
Charles ruined his sentence with a kiss, climbing onto his lap to reach him. Arthur was stiff and surprised under his touch for only a moment before he melted into Charles like the last winter's frost - eagerly yielding to the heat of the summer sun. After a long moment he pulled back, just barely.  
"Hi."  
"Hey," Arthur exhaled weakly, "you sleep good?"  
"Mhm. Get what you need in town?" Arthur nodded.   
" 's for you, actually."  
"Oh?" Charles smiled, leaning back. He felt his heart thundering away in his chest looking at the other man. Arthur looked strangely vulnerable without his hat on. His hair was starting to get a little long, tickling the bottom of his ears, and the shy way he was looking up at Charles could be called innocent if you didn't know him.   
"Yeah," Arthur said softly, moving to reach past him for his satchel. Charles meant to let him, he really did. But when Arthur leaned up, he caught a glimpse of what he'd been working on in his journal. The disorganized scribbles stretched across two pages, accompanied by a few words denoting certain plants. They were beautifully done, but what had really caught his eye was the profile taking up most of the second page.   
  
"Is that me?"  
Arthur immediately abandoned the satchel to cover the pages with his hand.   
"Huh? No," he said quickly and Charles bit back a grin at the pink dots quickly appearing in his cheeks.   
"Okay."   
The men stared at each other for a moment, unmoving.   
"I'd like to see, if that's alright."   
"Ain't nothin' special." Charles shrugged, a gentle disagreement. He watched Arthur's eyes flick down the sketch he was hiding, and then he sighed. "Suppose it's only fair, since I was drawin' you."   
"I thought it wasn't me?"  
His mouth quirked at that, and Charles fought back the desire to kiss at it.   
"You're right, 's some other fella," Arthur moved his hand to reveal the portrait, but it had smudged under his palm. "God dammit," he huffed, pulling out his pencil to try and erase some of the frayed lines. Charles stopped him with a raised hand. Even with the smudges, the drawings were masterful. Confident, purposeful lines, like the way Arthur walked - shoulders rolled back and chin out. The drawn Charles had a sly smile and a mess of loose braids framing his face. He could almost see the motion of it; the wind in his hair, the raw hunger in his own eyes.   
"Arthur, this is incredible."  
The other man scoffed, but there was a pleased little smile spilling onto his face.   
"Just scribbles."  
Charles lifted the page but did not turn it, looking to Arthur for permission.   
"Here, let me just..." he took the journal back and flipped through it, "there's a good one."   
_A good one_ was an understatement. Charles laid back onto Arthur's pillow to stare at the landscape he had captured. Fae was in the foreground, majestic against a deep valley. Charles could almost see the way the wind rippled through it, torrential. In the sky, dark storm clouds seemed to crackle with energy. He felt Arthur lie down next to him and watch for his reaction.   
"Thank you for sharing this with me," he smiled. Arthur shrugged, but he looked proud.   
" 's nothing."   
"Where was this?"  
  
They spent a while flipping through the book. Arthur was careful to skip over pages with lots of writing, and Charles did not press it. But he did ask about the plants he didn't recognize and took a long moment to linger on his sketch of the bison. But at some point, Charles looked to ask him another question and found the man asleep. He carefully closed the book and began to get up when he noticed Arthur's fist clutching the side of his shirt. He looked impossibly young right then. He wasn't yet old, but the lines of his face that usually betrayed his stressful lifestyle were smoothed away. Telling himself that he wasn't tired, that he'd sneak back to bed just as soon as Arthur let go of him, Charles laid back down. He took the other man up in his arms and relished in the way Arthur relaxed into his embrace. 

The next morning, Arthur woke up sweating. He was overly warm, but it was somehow still dark. How was it still dark? No, not dark, he realized slowly. He was just enveloped in darkness. His face was pressed into Charles' chest, his strong arms wrapped around Arthur's smaller torso. For a moment, the thrill of that realization was all he could think about. The heat his body pulsed with was nearly unbearable, their bodies both slick with sweat, and yet Arthur had to swallow against a flurry of butterflies.   
"Charles," he whispered, trying to gently free his arm. Raising his head, he could see the sun that was drifting in through the window was harsh and bright. It was late. The other man grunted unintelligibly and held Arthur tighter. He laughed to himself quietly, and figured kissing him awake was as good a strategy as any. That roused him with an intensity Arthur hadn't been expecting.   
"Mm, Arthur," he mumbled, half asleep. Arthur opened his mouth to try and call his name again, but could only gasp when Charles suddenly gripped his hip and rutted against him. Then they were kissing again and it was open mouthed and sloppy and tired and Arthur felt an entirely different heat building inside him. Charles' eyes were still half closed when he rolled up to straddle him. Arthur could not say the same - eyes wide with surprise and desire as Charles pulled his shirt over his head in one swift motion. He wanted to take in the sight of Charles' bare chest, but then he was back on him. His mouth was hot and wet at Arthur's neck, teeth grazing him in a sensation that was close to pain but all too good. He bit his own lip to keep quiet. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the knowledge that it was late morning in a camp full of people. But then Charles was grinding down against him and he lost his grip on any coherent thought except _more._  
  
The trance was only broken by a loud laugh somewhere nearby. Not at the shack, but close enough that Arthur grabbed Charles' shoulders and pushed until they were both siting up. If he wasn't half hard and overly aware of how his pulse was galloping away, he would've laughed. Charles had a grumpy glare on his face, eyes bleary and hair a mess over his bare shoulders. He rubbed the heel of his palms against his eyes.   
"What time is it?"  
"Late," Arthur stood out of the bed, grateful for the cool air away from Charles' furnace of a body.   
"Didn't mean to fall asleep," Charles grumbled, looking around. Arthur chuckled, picked up the discarded shirt and handed it back to him with a kiss.   
" 's quite alright." 

They had tidied themselves up as best as they could before Arthur remembered. In his satchel, he found the little metal star and offered it to Charles.   
"What's this?" he smiled and _hell,_ that smile. Small and private and just for Arthur. Instead of answering, he pressed it into Charles' palm. For a moment, he just stared down at it. Arthur waited for joy or praise or _something_ , but only watched as the easy grin slid from Charles' face.   
"Arthur, what is this?" he asked seriously. Feeling very suddenly like a scolded child, Arthur averted his eyes.   
"Deputy's badge."   
"What deputy?"  
Arthur huffed, meeting Charles' gaze again.   
"What deputy you think?   
  
It hadn't taken very much effort to get the young man alone. Arthur had watched him grow sloppy at the bar, what had to be close to a day's wages falling into the tender's hands. Apparently, deputizing was not a job for which you needed a level head. This was not a surprise to him.   
When he stumbled out the back door, Arthur followed. By then it was properly dark, and the deputy had barely turned his head toward the sound of his approach before the butt of Arthur's pistol came down hard against the base of his skull. Unconscious, he had drowned quickly and quietly in the water trough where Arthur left him.   
  
Charles' expression was flat and the badge was clutched in his closed fist.   
"What, ya don't like it?"  
So briefly Arthur was certain he had imagined it, anger dusted Charles' face before it fell back to complete neutrality.   
"Here," he held the badge back out to Arthur, but he didn't take it.   
"You mad?"   
"Just take it back," he insisted, but Arthur held his ground.   
"Charles - ?"  
"I'm not mad." Arthur pursed his lips.  
"Alright."   
"Just take it back."  
"Sure seem mad."   
"I'm not mad," his voice was unwavering and Arthur half believed him. After all, he had always been upfront with him before. When Arthur did not take the badge, Charles dropped it onto the cot and walked past him. Before Arthur could say anything, warn him to make sure no one was watching, Charles was gone. The door hung upon in his wake, letting in harsh rays of midday sun and leaving Arthur exposed. 

  
  
He didn't see Charles again until that evening. He'd tried to subtly look around for him but gave up when he noticed Taima was missing. There was a cold worry in his gut. He wanted to take Charles at his word as he had done for Arthur so many times. But he could not shake the drastic change in how Charles had looked at him - from soft and adoring to hard and ambiguous. He tried to keep his mind busy with the chores that had, predictably, not been done. He was rounding the corner of Dutch's shack with a sack of chicken feed over his shoulder when he noticed Sadie lowering herself carefully out of a window. He stopped, watching her feet hit the ground before she glanced around and caught sight of Arthur. Her eyes grew wide.  
"Arthur!" she gasped, hand flying to her chest, "What are you doin'?"  
Arthur raised his eyebrow, readjusting the bag of feed over his shoulder.   
"What am _I_ doin'?"  
"Yes."  
Arthur huffed. How had he ended up surrounded by so many stubborn bastards?  
"Well _I_ am feedin' the chickens, Ms. Adler. What are _you_ doin'?" Sadie's hair was disheveled and the back of her shirt wasn't tucked in properly. "You got lipstick on?"  
"What?" Sadie raised the back of her hand to her mouth, "No."  
"You sure?"  
She wiped at her mouth and a bit of the redness there came away.   
"Huh. Guess I was."  
"Huh." Arthur narrowed his eyes, but Sadie wasn't holding his gaze. "What you doin'?" he asked again.   
"Just, uh," she glanced back to the window she'd just exited, "helpin' Miss O'Shea."  
"Helpin' Miss O'Shea how?"  
Sadie faltered briefly before her expression landed on annoyance.   
" _Womanly_ stuff, Arthur."  
"Oh," he averted his gaze now, looking at the sky. " 'm sorry."  
"Ya should be."  
"Why can't you use the door?" Sadie rolled her eyes.   
"It's _private_. You wouldn't understand."  
Arthur took her word for it.   
"Alright then."  
"Alright."  
Arthur awkwardly shifted the bag to his other shoulder.   
"Be talkin' to ya then, Sadie."  
She nodded curtly and for the second time that day, someone stormed past Arthur. He wondered if maybe he was the problem.   
  


He was eating at the fire with the others when Charles finally returned. Davey had been talking his ear off about some inventor he ran into when the other man sat across the fire with a bowl of stew.   
"Charles!" he sat up, interrupting Davey, "Where you been?"  
Charles glanced around at the curious faces looking towards him before meeting Arthur's gaze.  
"Around."  
"What's it to you, Morgan?" Mac asked defensively. He was reminded of Charles' very first night at camp and thought he saw the man ever so slightly roll his eyes.   
Arthur had forgotten himself. He coughed and leaned back with a shrug. Davey launched back into his story but Arthur had stopped listening. Even among outlaws, there were things you could not do. Not openly at least. The fling he'd had with Samuel had only been tolerated as something that went wholly unacknowledged. He would sneak into Arthur's tent at night and they went out of camp to embrace. He wasn't even sure Dutch and Hosea themselves _really_ knew the extent of it until it all came out in the wash. They certainly hadn't know Arthur loved him until he opened his big, stupid mouth.   
"Pearson," Karen had a sour look on her face, "this is worse than usual."  
"It's all turnips," Bill said.   
"Don't got no meat!" Pearson protested loudly from his tent. "You're all ungrateful, wanting a meal with no ingredients."   
"Ain't you men meant to be hunters?" Tilly quipped, earning a snort of laughter from Sadie. Arthur took the opportunity.   
"What you say, Charles," he said into his bowl, trying to appear casual, "elk again?"  
"Sure," he said after a moment. Arthur did not acknowledge it, but felt a giddy excitement nonetheless. 

When Arthur tried to find Charles after dinner, he seemed to have disappeared again. After a head count, he realized he had probably taken watch. Arthur had already begun trudging through the marshy brush before he considered the likelihood of being able to find Charles if he did not want to be found. He sighed and swallowed his pride.   
"Charles? You out here?"  
Silence.   
"Charles?" he called again, and felt his face grow warm with embarrassment. Maybe he had counted wrong, or maybe Charles had just decided that he didn't want - .  
"Yes, Arthur?"  
The man seemed to materialize from behind a tree.   
"Damn you are quieter than a shadow, you know that?"  
Charles had on a red button down loosely tucked into his pants. His brown vest hung open and had a small stripe of blue pattern down the front of it. He was wearing one earring that had two brown and white bird feathers attached to it.   
"I like this," he continued, tapping his own ear instead of approaching the other man. Charles was still holding his rifle stiffly across his chest.   
"Thank you."  
Arthur coughed and glanced over his shoulder. The main fire was a weak glow beyond the trees.  
"Barely got to talk 'fore you ran off his mornin'."   
"I didn't mean to sleep with you in the first place."   
Arthur tutted, a little hurt.   
"I ain't complainin'."  
"Someone could have seen."  
"Yeah."  
A long moment passed where Arthur kicked at a rock on the ground and Charles stood very still.   
"Elk tomorrow then?"  
"Sure."  
"Could stop at that house again."  
"I suppose."  
  
Despite his mounting certainty that something was off, Arthur closed the distance between them. Charles was watching him closely. Arthur didn't know how to express the loss he was feeling at the shift in Charles' demeanor. He was cold in the memory of that morning, waking up in Charles' arms. He didn't know how to ask for it again. Arthur reached out for him then pulled his hand back, only to to reach up again very slowly, like he was trying to offer his scent to a wild animal. He half expected Charles to stop him or pull away. Instead he allowed Arthur to cup his cheek gently, and even closed his eyes and leaned his face into the touch. The intense relief Arthur felt at this smallest of gestures almost frightened him. When had he handed Charles all this power over him?  
  
"Somethin' wrong Charles?"  
The man opened his eyes again and stepped out of Arthur's touch. His hand fell limply back to his side.   
"I'm meant to be keeping watch."  
"Sure," he bent his head forward so the brim of his hat hid his face. It was an unnecessary gesture, as Charles was already turning away. Arthur mumbled a _later, then_ to the trees, and returned to camp. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for no reason at all, I have changed the rating to explicit (there is a reason and that reason is I plan on starting some smut next chapter or so - you’ve been warned. if that's something that bothers you lmk and I'll tell you where to skip). but yeah Charles being a horny sleeper feels very on brand to me idk
> 
> Arthur said ACAB


	6. Chapter 6

Hey guys! Posting this because a couple people have reached out to me asking when this will be updated - I am very sorry to say I do not have any current plans to update this. That may change someday, but I have spent the last three weeks writing a completely different, novel length RDR2 fic and that's where my head is going to be for the foreseeable future. I'm going to post that here as well, probably in its entirety, if you're interested in that. After that, I'm hoping to go back to focusing on law school. If I do come back to this, it'll probably be this summer.  
Again, I'm really sorry!


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